1. The Storm

Micah Stillwater peered through To a Tea's paneled windows with his hands cupped around his eyes, but the view awarded him little more than a flurry of snowflakes the size of cotton balls. It was the beginning of December, which heralded the largest snowstorm in years. Lights from a passing snow plow flashed yellow against the cars parked on the curb, which were rapidly disappearing under the accumulating snow. He grimaced and straightened, clicking off the neon OPEN sign.

"Nobody's gonna get very far in this storm." He turned from the window with a pit of worry in his stomach. He looked eastward, toward the river, and made a mental note to go out to Lilydale to check on the Folk tomorrow.

He'd managed to get the other two baristas home after closing was finished, but not Diana. She sat on the countertop by the register, sipping a bright orange Thai tea and scrolling on her phone. She had loosely braided brown hair and wore tights under a pair of black denim shorts—very poorly chosen for the season, Micah thought. Not that he was a bastion of being appropriately dressed, as his boyfriend liked to point out. At least Diana wore Docs with wool socks.

"Why aren't you trying to get home?" she asked, glancing at him with cool gray eyes rimmed with eyeliner. That was what Diana had been like for the year she was at To a Tea: cool, snarky, and put together. Much like Micah, she was older than most of the high school baristas and didn't need to be given the same basic and redundant direction as the younger kids. She was kind to every customer, and didn't bring any drama to work. As far as Micah knew, she was working on a Master's degree at one of the nearby universities. Maybe Saint Kate's.

"'Cause I couldn't convince you to go home," he replied with a laugh. He slid onto the counter next to her and folded his hands, surveying his shop with a frown. With all the chairs and stools up, it looked ominous, like a cursed forest. The art showcase for the month was grim, too. Dead trees and dark skies filled the paintings on the walls. Andrew warned him the exhibit was going to look depressing, especially during the holidays. But the artist who asked for the showcase had seemed like she needed it. "I gotta go down with the ship. Can't leave till the crew does."

"I mean, you could. I've closed alone. I know the alarm code."

Ignoring the comment, Micah said, "Listen, I gotta make a call. But I want you to try to get a car home for yourself, okay? I'll pay. They hike the prices during storms like this, but they'll show up anyway."

Diana made a noncommittal noise and quirked a corner of her lip. He bonked their elbows together. Then he jumped to his feet and disappeared around the corner into the back hall of the shop. He let himself into the windowless manager's office and closed the door. The space was still a disaster relative to how he kept his brownstone on Saint Claire, but it was better than when he first took over the store. He had organized all the mandatory notices on the walls into neat rows, and gotten a greenhouse lamp to keep some plants alive on his filing cabinet. Spinning on the squeaky chair by his desktop monitor, Micah used his office landline and dialed Andrew Vidasche's cell number from memory.

Andrew picked up on the first ring. "Hey, are you okay?" His voice vibrated Micah's bones. It was a particular twist of gravelly and airy, like the sound of two flint stones scraping together.

"Yeah," replied Micah. "I'm still at the shop. One of my baristas is stuck here."

"Your dad had the weather channel on all afternoon. This blizzard is insane." Andrew's Scouse accent came out when he pressed his A into a lilt. "Do you want me to come and get you?"

Micah twirled the phone cord on his finger. "I wanna say no? I gotta take care of Diana. Then I'll make it home. It shouldn't be more than a couple hours."

"How are you going to ‘make it home'?" Andrew pressed.

"I'll fold some shadows…"

Andrew paused. Micah could feel the argument coming before he even heard it. "That hasn't been working consistently, Micah. You almost dumped yourself in the river last month."

"Andrew." Wounded pride sharpened an edge into his voice.

Heedless, Andrew said, "I can make it up there in probably thirty minutes. The Saturn has made it through many blizzards."

"Andrew."

Andrew gave a growl of frustration, "Why won't you let me come get you?"

"'Cause it's not a huge deal! Just be a bit patient, okay? We're perfectly safe here for the moment, and I need to take care of her first."

"You really don't."

Sighing, Micah said, "I'll text you in a few minutes, okay? I was trying to call to check in. Not to get badgered." He dropped the phone noisily back into its cradle. Sliding his black beanie off his head, he slapped it onto his desk and then leaned back in his chair, glaring at the stained ceiling tiles.

Things were tense with Andrew right now. They passed their second anniversary over the summer, and Andrew had formally moved into the brownstone. He had changed then. Pulled away. Micah didn't know why, and no matter how he asked the question, Andrew had nothing to share on the matter. He wondered if it was because they were together too much. Micah was new to cohabiting, and had to learn boundaries, and learn to hear the things Andrew left unsaid—which was a lot, it turned out. Regardless, he couldn't get Andrew back. Micah felt Andrew's emotional absence like a fog which swallowed them both up. Micah realized within that formless gray space that he had no idea who he actually was.

Enormous power stirred in Micah when he confronted his mother in the Redwoods, but when he came home to Minnesota…it all went back to sleep. Micah made sure he visited Ingrid in Lilydale once or twice a month, but his visits were short and uneasy. All the Folk stared at him, and his shoulders tingled during his whole stay.

What was worse was how Lilydale shook loose all these memories from the Redwoods, making it almost torture to be there. It was for his father's sake, but it was also for his own. The twenty years Micah spent growing up in the Redwoods had been sharp edges, backstabbing, loveless trysts, and sickening overindulgence. Lilydale might be softer, but the basic routine there struck him as very much the same in essence.

It didn't help that he seemed to be a disappointment to the Folk in Lilydale. Everyone seemed to expect him to be a remarkable force of nature now, but he had few Fae abilities he'd identified and none he could do at will. At least his relationship with Ingrid was better now. That was enough for him, and so was having a normal job, and a…relatively normal family.

Julian Stillwater went to weekly bingo, and water aerobics, and made dinners for many of their neighbors throughout the week. Otherwise, he kept to himself, focusing on maintaining the brownstone on Saint Claire, and keeping Cinnamon company after Fadil passed away last winter. Julian actually seemed more stable since being rescued from the Redwoods. Not perfect, still prone to nightmares and dissociative spells. But not as jumpy, not always yearning for Fae-spelled foods. Andrew and Sam, safe humans who knew about Lilydale, helped Julian stay grounded.

"Micah?" Tap. Tap.

He jumped, pulled from his…brooding. Wheeling the chair over to the door, he spun the knob and cracked it open.

Diana peeked inside. "The earliest a car's gonna get here is an hour."

Returning to position with his head back and eyes on the ceiling, Micah took a fortifying breath. "Okay. That's nothing." He sat up. "Want to do inventory?"

She snorted. "You gonna pay me for it?"

Micah shrugged. "Seems fair."

Near the front windows, silhouetted by snow billowing off the awning outside, Micah sat on a stool at the counter with glass jars of tea leaves in front of him. He held a thick ream of paper and a highlighter. They worked quietly for a while, checking tea quantities against the manifest and preparing for reordering, or letting stock run out on items that weren't selling.

Diana picked up a jar and side-eyed him.

He blinked. "What's that look for?"

"Who'd you need to call? Was it that tall red-haired guy who comes in?"

Micah blinked again. "Uh. Yeah. My boyfriend."

Smiling with dimples in both cheeks, Diana put her chin in her hand and said, "Well how about that. It just takes a blizzard for Micah to self-disclose for once." She paused. "Isn't he a lot older than you?"

Eight years younger, actually. That was another issue that sat in the back of his thoughts at all times. In the two years since they'd gotten together, Micah hadn't aged at all. Every month or so he would inspect his reflection against photos from his first summer with Andrew. But not so much as a single wrinkle had appeared. Toward Diana, he tried to make his grimace more coy than dreadful. "Looks that way."

"Anna and Faith would be devastated if they knew you're gay," she added, referring to two of the baristas who were the most attentive to…literally everything Micah did.

"Yeah, I'm not," Micah said automatically. Apparently he still hadn't lived through enough social movements for people to stop making assumptions about his sexuality based on his partner.

Diana cringed, and then resumed shifting through the tea jars while Micah highlighted. She finally said, "Sorry. I was presumptuous."

He glanced up from the papers with a faint smile. "It's all good," he said gently. "I'm used to it."

Diana's cheeks colored. "I didn't ever think you were gay, for the record. On the other hand, I've never seen you flirt with…anything."

Smirking, he said, "I do save most of my flattery for cats."

"Oh god."

"Yeah. I'm a cat guy."

Diana swallowed and then said in a hurry, "You're just a pretty respectable guy, I mean."

Looking down at the paper and highlighting a quantity line, Micah shrugged. "I'm in charge, so I try not to mess around."

"You're only human."

Micah bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from snorting. He was glad he was looking at the paper to mask the way his eyes bugged. When he contained himself, he looked back up and said, "Would you prefer if I was flirting with everyone?"

Diana blushed again. "No! That's not what I meant."

He grinned.

"I just meant it's hard to tell if you're even into anyone." She hugged her arms across her chest and stared at the jars on the table, picking one up and giving it a turn before setting it back down and pushing her hair behind her ear. "I don't mean—"

"Hey." Micah patted her elbow. "I'm giving you a hard time." Her shoulders relaxed and she pressed her hand to her cheek with a timid smile. Shifting uneasily, Micah explained, "I've been with Andrew for two years. I haven't really thought about anyone else since then. He saved my life." Micah's mind served him an image of Andrew in the backseat of his Saturn, soaked by rain and bloodied by a sword swung by Micah's own mother.

Diana traced the shape of a jar lid with a finger. "Lucky."

"I am. Very." He scrutinized Diana. "Is…everything okay, for you? Are you avoiding going home? I've noticed you're usually at a table reading long after your shifts."

She grimaced. "It's usually homework, but…yeah, that too, I guess. Home…isn't great." Diana shrugged. Micah waited for her to continue. "Bought a house with my boyfriend. After that he showed his true colors."

Micah leaned across the counter toward her. With an earnest shine in his orchid eyes, he said solemnly, "If you're ever unsafe there, I've got plenty of space at my place. Okay?"

Turning away quickly, Diana dabbed at the corner of her eyes. "Why are you so nice?" she muttered.

Micah glared at the tea on the counter. "Seems like your bar is set pretty low." He shook his head. "Look, this is stupid. I can do inventory Friday morning." Shuffling the papers together, Micah got up and started putting back the jars of tea. Diana looked confused but didn't argue, letting him slip around her with their shoulders brushing as he passed. "It's a blizzard," he said. "We don't need to be productive when crazy shit happens."

Diana's gaze roved the tea shop. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. Then she grabbed a paper cup for hot drinks off a stack near her and flipped it in her hands. "Wanna play the cup game?"

"The what?"

She scoffed, "You don't know the cup game?" Diana squeezed around him and pulled down two chairs at a small table next to the windows.

Micah thought ruefully about growing up in faerieland. A lot of human childhood experiences were not had. He plopped into the chair across from her, the cold air seeping through the window chilling his shoulder. Outside, the street was eerily deserted at a time when it was usually crowded with diners. Micah wasn't actually sure how he was going to get home. He was about to pull his phone from his pocket, but then Diana started drumming on her cup and flipping it over her hand. Micah paused, quizzical and amused.

"Are you interested in magic, Micah?" asked Diana. "The crystals you wear, the gauges, the colorful hair…" She glanced up when Micah took a short breath. "I am too, that's why I ask. And I believe in small magic. Like rhythm, and carefully chosen words, and intention."

Micah's shoulders relaxed. "Yeah. Of course."

She hummed while she flipped and tapped, smiling faintly. Then she slowed down to teach him, and commended him when he caught on quickly. When he meant to pass it to her, he fumbled and the cup went flying. They both laughed and lunged at it.

He caught it first before it hit the floor, but barely, and Diana's hand closed around his. She then swooped in with confidence, lashes fluttering shut as she pressed her lips to his and kissed him. Tasting cardamom, Micah froze, his heart climbing up into his throat as everything fell into chaotic confusion inside him.

Clasping her shoulder, he snapped back into his body to push Diana away.

A clod of snow thumped loudly against the window next to them. He jumped and pulled away, the confused shock from the kiss replaced by a blast of dread. Over the snowball plastered to the glass, the window showed a familiar fox-like face framed by auburn hair under a furry hunter's cap.

Micah swore, kicked back his chair fast enough that it toppled, and tore through the front door. It was heavy and hard to push open against the piling snow. He squeezed through the crack, giving Andrew plenty of time to trudge down the street back the way he came. "No, no, no, Andrew, wait, wait, stop. You're too fucking fast! Slow d—oof!"

Andrew spun around as Micah face-planted into the snow in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. Micah shot up like he was spring-loaded, spitting out a clod of snow. Andrew didn't think twice as he hauled Micah back to his feet and brushed him off, slinging his scarf off his shoulders and pitching it at Micah.

Face burning despite the weather, Andrew continued the trek through the calf-deep snow back to his Saturn idling on the road. Tears jumped into his eyes, but they melted into the snowflakes on his lashes. Things had been…rough, a bit, since the summer. But this was worse than Andrew anticipated, and confirmed all his worst fears.

Micah called from behind him, "Andrew, please don't think—I–I would never—"

"We need to get home," Andrew declared, not turning around. He climbed onto a waist-high snowbank that had iced over during a previous storm, and down past it into the empty street. His winter boots were plenty sturdy for this, laced tight and insulated by wool socks underneath.

As Andrew yanked open the driver's side door, Micah clambered over the snowbank after him. Winter stripped Micah of his easy way of moving. It was startling for Andrew to adjust to during the first winter and still strange now during the third. Hitherto all gracefully connected to the natural greenery of the world, during the winter Micah regularly slipped on patches of ice, tripped on chunks of frozen snow, and wore the wrong shoes out and soaked his feet to the bone. It was annoying. Winter was still natural, and who was Micah to decide what nature he connected with and which he rejected?

Trying to keep the sneer from his tone, Andrew asked flatly, "You're just going to leave your jacket? We could get stranded."

"Why did you come?" Micah asked instead of answering. On any other day, Micah would be warmed by Andrew's insistence to help. But if Andrew hadn't shown up…Diana shouldn't have kissed him, and Micah shouldn't have let it fluster him, but he could have dealt with it immediately. Shut her down. Hell, he could have fired her.

The streetlights glinted on the vial of Micah's blood Andrew wore as a pendant from a cord around his neck. He hadn't taken it off in two years, not since Micah got Chamomile's help to protect Andrew from any Fae abilities Micah didn't know he was using. Now it rested on the top button of his coat, as if he'd used it like a homing device to find Micah in the storm.

All that work, only to find someone kissing him.

"I told you that you didn't need to come." Micah stammered, "Not because I've been doing a-anything behind your back…I didn't want…I just, you didn't tell me."

Andrew's eyes turned dark and angry. "Didn't I? Check your phone," he snapped, still hovering over the door of the Saturn. Snow crowned his head and turned his cheeks ruddy, his eyes glassy and reflecting the street lights a dozen times over. On the verge of angry tears, in his black double-breasted pea coat, Andrew looked tragically handsome. "Your dad practically put my jacket on for me. He's been losing it all day."

Micah's heart sank. "Oh. God." He dug out his phone and flicked briefly through the number of texts from Julian and several from Andrew. At the bottom, a text from a number he didn't have saved said I'm so sorry.

Pulling his sleeve over his palm and wiping his face, Andrew said, "You need to get home."

"Can't I ex—"

"No!"

Micah swallowed. He blinked back tears because he had nothing to cry for. It was his lips that tasted like someone else. "I'm sorry."

Andrew watched the piling snow on the roof of the Saturn, gathered his wounded feelings in a pile, and stuffed them down. He said blankly, "Are you getting home with me, or are you finding your own way?"

"C…can I?" He indicated the passenger door.

"It's why I came." Andrew slid into the car and slammed his door hard enough that the car creaked on its suspension. He glared at the steering wheel while Micah got situated in the passenger seat, wrapped in Andrew's Leinster tartan scarf, combing back his green hair with his fingers. His hair never darkened after the Redwoods, staying lighter than the turquoise it was when Andrew met him. Now it was a leafy, sage green, wet with snow, cut in the same way as before with the sides buzzed short and the hair on the crown of his head effortlessly tousled to the left.

Andrew looked back at the road, which was already choked by fresh snow even though he'd been behind a plow on his way out. The Saturn groaned, the wheels spun and smelled like rubber, but they made slow forward progress.

Micah glanced at his phone when it buzzed on his lap.

"Already getting texts from your new girlfriend, eh?" Andrew's voice was brittle.

Micah flipped his phone over and buried his face in his hands. "I don't know what to say."

On a bridge over a railroad track not far from the brownstone, the Saturn's wheels slipped and lost traction. Andrew cursed and switched into third gear, but nothing changed. He reversed, twisting in his seat, trying to avoid the treads he'd made in the road, and then he revved and slammed on the gas. The back tires of the Saturn fish-tailed and sent them toward the curb. Micah clenched his jaw and gripped the handle over the door. Then the car stopped again, a stinky exhaust cloud forcing its way inside through the closed windows. Andrew switched into park. Snow blossomed in the beams of the headlights like static on a television.

Tears ran freely down Andrew's cheeks. He sniffed messily, grabbing a fast-food napkin and wiping his face. "I've been afraid of this since we got together."

"What?" Micah's hand fell against his chest, the disbelief and horror palpable.

"You're…too good for me. Everyone loves you…and you had Chami…or even that…that buff faerie in the Redwoods…" Andrew's voice broke and he folded his arms on the steering wheel and hid his face. "I'm boring. I'm so dreadfully human. I—I don't even know the geography of my own home country, did you know? Told you Liverpool was in the east when it's northwest. Should have been your first clue. I'm weak and sad and you're so—"

"Andrew, please," Micah said desperately. "That's not at all what this was. I did not predict, intend, nor ask for that to happen. And yet, it happened, and that's my fault," Micah said, touching Andrew's shoulder. "I was just telling her—"

Andrew flinched away from his touch. "Please don't."

Micah's heart dropped. Tears stung his eyes, but once again he steeled himself and swallowed them back, swallowing and swallowing until the feeling subsided. He hugged himself tightly with a savage shiver.

"I need you in the driver's seat," Andrew said abruptly, straightening, wiping his face dry with his sleeve. He switched the car into neutral. "I'm going to get out and push. When I knock on the boot, slam on the gas. Keep the wheels pointed toward the road. Okay?"

"I can help push." Micah unbuckled, ready to jump out.

Sharply, Andrew told him, "No. You're wearing a T-shirt." His voice was dense with….mockery, Micah realized with a lurch. Andrew got out of the car and slammed the door on him. His head spinning and stomach knotted with shame, Micah shimmied into the driver's seat and switched gears as Andrew went around the back of the car.

When Andrew got back to the bumper, a wave of nausea hit him and he leaned over the trunk, biting down on a cry. His face burned from the coarse wool of his jacket sleeve, from the cold, from the urge to weep more. Andrew pounded a fist on the trunk, gritted his teeth, and shoved his shoulder into the rear of the car. The wheels screamed, spun, and then gained traction. Andrew leaned and shoved, and then the Saturn started to move. With the sudden shift, his boots slipped out from under him. He crashed onto his hip and smacked his head on the bumper.

After the car window buzzed open, Micah called, "Are you okay?" The Saturn was still crunching forward, but was slowing down.

"Don't stop!" Andrew scrambled to his feet and tripped around to the passenger door as the Saturn made it to the crest of the hill. He yanked open the door and fell inside.

"Keep flooring it," he instructed, shutting himself inside the Saturn, brushing off his sleeve and his pants. Wet clods of snow flew off him and landed with a plop on the window console.

Micah's jaw was clenched, his knuckles turning white around the wheel. Andrew rubbed his forehead where the flesh was tender, wincing, trying to ignore Micah's look of concern.

They conquered the worst part of the drive, and made it down the street to Saint Claire. Parking in front of the brownstone was messy, and the Saturn would need to be adjusted when the snow stopped. This was an expected inconvenience during a blizzard, when abandoned cars in ditches or on back roads became a norm, and being towed was a relief more than a threat. But they made it, mostly into a parking spot, and Micah was mercifully silent.

As soon as Micah cut the engine, Andrew threw open the passenger door. Climbing between the snowbank and the curb, he trudged back towards West Seventh in the direction of his shop, Magic's Computer Repair.

Micah stood in the deep snow, goosebumps rising on his bare arms, watching Andrew flee across the street. He called desperately, "Seriously, Andrew? Can't you stay and fight with me?"

Andrew stopped and turned back. Fat snowflakes settled on his shoulders. His chin quivered slightly, though he tried to suppress it. With eyes that were a dark void, he shrugged. "Can't I let you go?"

"To what?" cried Micah. "There's nothing else I want!"

Tears beaded on Andrew's lashes. "I don't believe you." He stuffed his hands in his pockets, turned away, and faded into the chaos of the storm.