9. The Fruit

Micah's only sensation was soft. The light was soft, the blankets were soft, and his breathing was soft. He easily shut away the guilt around missing work at To a Tea, and felt sure enough he'd be able to deal with one unexpected absence when he went in tomorrow.

Chamomile's canopy was the best part about her dreadful little hoarder's closet of a hut. Most of the inside smelled like an antique shop: tarnished brass, heavy moth-eaten linen, a hundred doilies. But over her canopy she had strings of undying roses wafting their heady fragrance onto the bed, which was stacked with furs and silks and feather pillows.

With his arm crooked and cradling his head, he listened to Chamomile breathe slowly and heavily, her back to him, twitching slightly like a dreaming cat.

Micah reached out with tentative fingers and gently combed through her long hair. There was no trace of blond in the pale light; it was all silver. It spilled like liquid over his hand and transfixed his gaze. He sighed, wistful.

"That tickles," mumbled Chamomile.

"Sorry." He pulled his hand back, awkwardly scratching his collarbone over his shirt.

"Keep doing it."

Micah smiled. He separated three strands with clumsy fingers and then began a lumpy braid. Chamomile stirred slightly, but only to tuck her blankets under her chin. Faintly through her walls, a lyre strummed sleepily.

"Hey, Chami…" He teased the braid apart, running the length of her hair through his hands. It seemed never-ending, much longer than he remembered.

Chamomile rolled over to face him, her hair draping over her shoulder, still threaded through his fingers.

He asked after a moment, "Do you think I'm formidable?"

Chamomile quirked her eyebrow, barely a glimmering smear on her forehead. "Formidable," she repeated.

"Yeah." Her reaction already told him her answer, so he braced himself.

Searching his face, her own expression veiled, she smoothed her hair back from her cheek so her pierced and pointed ear protruded skyward. "You felled the Redwood Queen."

Micah knew that trick. She always answered a question he hadn't asked when she knew he wasn't going to like what she said. He frowned. "Yeah, I know. But that wasn't in question."

Chamomile sighed through her button nose. "No, I don't think you're formidable, Micah."

Micah gave a little growl of disappointment and rubbed his face on her fuzzy pillow.

"I think you can be." She laid her warm hand on his shoulder. "Right now, you're still part of the tree. But you're not the strong trunk, so much as the soft but sweet fruit."

Snorting, Micah looked back over at her. She had a guilty frown puckered on her lips.

Micah pushed himself onto his elbow and propped his cheek against his fist. "It's an annoying, but surprisingly apt metaphor."

"That's my specialty." Her expression relaxed. "I expected you to be upset."

"Nah. If I were formidable, I wouldn't have almost frozen myself to death." He imagined Chamomile, hardly over four feet tall, lugging his six foot frame into Lilydale herself. He knew she was stronger than a human her size would be, but that was…interesting. He'd be draped over her shoulder, while she gripped his wrists and smelled liquor on his breath.

It brought back other memories, of dalliances they had together in this very bed beneath a canopy of the same roses. Maybe it was the smell of the blossoms, or the way they lent a soft pink outline to everything, but it was almost impossible for Micah to stay rooted in the moment. He felt like a careless kid again dating the first pretty girl he met in Lilydale, when he'd allowed himself to act like he wasn't just a human. That was what this all really was, wasn't it? He wasn't human. Human rules, human morality shouldn't matter to him.

His eyes drifted back to Chamomile, who leaned her cheek on her knuckles. She looked like safety, and magic, and letting go of the fears that had ruled Micah for so long.

"You don't handle your liquor as well as you wish you did." Chamomile smirked up at him.

"How did you revive me?" He leaned closer. "Kiss of life?"

Several expressions moved over Chamomile's features like seasons rapidly changing. The apples of her cheeks reddened.

Bolstered, Micah ran his hand along the velvety skin of her neck, coming to rest on her jaw with his thumb dimpling lightly on her cheek. Her long white lashes fluttered closed as he leaned close enough to smell coffee and rose hips on her breath. Micah kissed the pillow of her lower lip as he closed his eyes, finding her docile and open as he pressed their mouths together.

It was brief, but sweet like honey, and soft as a flower petal. Micah lost himself for a moment. He leaned his forearm over her shoulder on her bedding and felt her grasp the collar of his shirt with one hand. Against the rising warmth of their kiss, he pulled himself back.

Chamomile opened stunned blue eyes, blinking several times, her lips making a circle of surprise. "Micah." Her accusatory tone shook him back down into his body, into real life.

He sat back, ankles crossed, knees bent. The spell was broken, and all that remained was guilt, and Andrew's expression of betrayal and disbelief in Micah's thoughts.

"Don't." Micah covered his face, tried to breathe, but he was choked by the floral fragrance of her, the sweetness she left on his tongue. He tried to breathe, tried to pull himself away, tried to remember that she was wrong and would solve nothing.

"Micah?" Chamomile's voice went shrill with disbelief. "What was that?"

Still hidden in his hands, he groaned, "Damn it. Instant regret."

"Micah!" she said again. "Andrew is gonna try to fight me!" She scoffed, "That's gonna be such a pain." She sat up and wrapped her silk robe tightly around herself.

Micah rubbed his cheeks. "I-I'm sorry. I'm so—so overwhelmed. And you're so cute when you blush. Like a little cherub."

Chamomile gave his thigh a savage pinch.

Micah yelped, "Ouch!" He swatted her hand away as she came in for another pinch. "What are you doing?"

"Snapping you out of it." The goblin clenched her little knobby fists with a quick shake of her head. "We supported you last night. We made Andrew feel bad. Don't be stupid now."

Micah rubbed the sore spot. "Andrew told me to screw around while he's gone. At least you're not a random person."

"I will not be part of creating that kind of tangle!" Chamomile's soprano voice was urgent like bells chiming. She gave her hair an agitated toss, twisting it around her hand. "Monogamous people can't just turn off their desire to keep their partner to themselves. I can assure you that Andrew doesn't actually want you kissing other people."

"Maybe I don't care what he wants," Micah growled.

Chamomile found his nipple through his shirt and gave it a savage twist, ignoring his squawks of protest and the curses he flung at her. "Quit being a child!" She shifted her weight, climbing to her knees, looming over him with moisture lining the lower lashes of her large eyes. She was desperate, frustrated, disappointed. "I simply do not believe you've so suddenly given up on him. Don't you remember all you've done for him in just two years? You are ready to give that man the world. He's been gone not even two days. Why are you so ready to cast him aside?"

Micah lay with his eyes clamped shut and caught his breath, tears squeezing out through his lashes. "Okay. You got me." His bravado melted as he glanced at Chamomile and received the weight of her disappointment like she'd dropped a boulder on his chest, which was slowly crushing the breath out of his ribs. His expression crumpled. "Andrew discarded me, Chami," he whispered. "He just left. This…this was spite. But also comfort. And…I don't know. I'm lonely. I'm…" With a great sigh, Micah cast his arm over his face and ground his teeth together. "I'm sorry."

Arms crossed, Chamomile glared through the paned window next to them, her matcha skin tone still flushed rosy pink. She fought to push her hair back over her shoulders before starting to braid it instead. She sighed, her head flicking as if casting off her perturbation. Her cerulean eyes darted toward him and then away. "You're a very good lover, Micah. That was never the problem with our relationship."

Micah wiped his eyes dry. He glared at her like a disgruntled cat, only one eye open.

"I knew I could never be as committed to you as you were to me," Chamomile told him frankly. "I have three or four lovers most of the time. I give small parts of myself. Earnestly enough, but only parts, all the same." Her eyes warmed; she smiled, shaking her head. "You give everything."

Micah's throat constricted. He looked away.

"Be hurt," said Chamomile gently, reaching out and touching his face with her small fingers. "But you don't need to pretend like you're not just waiting for him to come home."