In the end, Bodidn’t stalk off on his own. Everil trailed behind him, up the path and into the house, quiet as a winter night. The house sat warm, because it was a good house, and Bo dropped into one of the armchairs he’d watched turn gray and dusty only a few hours earlier.
Fucking awkward, the silence clinging to the room between the two of them. It prickled at him, left him sulky enough to pull out his phone and throw up a quick message ofI’m alive, filming delayed, rather than try to engage.
It didn’t help that he was very fucking aware that not only could Everil feel his irritation, but the asshole teetered on the same edge as Bo himself. The ever-present self-loathing and guilt paled in the light of nerves.
Nerves and that fucking protective thing again, anticipation jacked to the fucking nines, and Bo with very few tools to break through.
“How long does–” A heavy footfall sounded upstairs. Bo cut himself off, his head tipped back on the chair to try and get a glimpse from the parlor entry. “The fuck?”
Two sets of footsteps then, with one a solid clunk and the other Talia’s lighter, more energetic step. An impossibly deep, rasping laugh echoed down the stairs.
“It’s a good thing I’ve no wings, so it is.” The voice was frayed at the edges, damn near resonating in the hall, a distinct twist of Northern Ireland in the words. Declan, at a guess. (And fuck, Everil was going to have a goddamn heart attack from nerves soon if they didn’t get there.) “Otherwise, these stairs would be grossly inconvenient.”
Bo caught a glimpse of a slight, pale figure with dark lips and a flash of robin’s egg blue seconds before Everil’s back promptly blocked it.
“Declan,” said Everil’s back.
“Your ward is a wee bit persuasive.” answered a voice from beyond Everil’s shirt, dry as the fucking desert.
“And cute,” Talia piped up, stepping into Bo’s line of sight and grabbing a chair for herself. She waved at Bo, grinning. Bo grinned back. “Don’t forget cute.”
“I assumed that was public knowledge. My mistake.”
Talia damn near twinkled in the voice’s general direction before she turned back to Bo. “They’re going to be all fae at each other now.Boring.Get me one of those drinks you had?”
“Talia. Bo’s our guest,” Everil murmured in mild reproof, sparing Bo from the guilt of admitting that, sadly, he didn’t know magic. “I will take care of the refreshments.”
“But Bo’s lookedgood.”
Bo mouthed ‘later’at Talia, which seemed to satisfy her. She flopped back further into her chair in triumph.
“Apologies. She’s undersocialized. Declan, I–” Everil took a step back, closer to Bo. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure you would come.”
A riot of emotions filled their bond in a flurry. Good ones, mostly, gratitude and remorse and affection and apprehension. It reminded Bo of himself years ago, nearly seventeen, on his aunt’s doorstep, stomach in knots at seeing her and Robin for the first time in years. He asked to come to live with them, and she’d agreed. Thank fuck for that. It hadn’t helped the sick war of happiness and shame, nerves and want and defensive walls all at once.
Bo stood when Everil stepped back. He moved in closer, fingers reaching for Everil’s elbow. A gentle brush of fingertips to ungodly soft fabric, that was all.
“If it were to witness your bond to a certain other individual, I’d not have.” Blunt fucker, unlike Everil under the damn tree. “Imagine my relief when I learned that wasn’t the case.”
Cold water in a shaded room, thick with dust, and Bo tucked the feeling away to think about later. He slid his fingers over the crook of Everil’s elbow, leaning to catch a full look at Declan.
Instead of another tall fae with flowing clothing and sad eyes, Declan apparently tumbled straight from the ’90’s punk scene into the Victorian sitting room.
Lanky and nearly bone white, skin and hair both save for a few generous handfuls of freckles. Black eyeliner smudges and lips so deep purple they bordered on pitch. Four silver hoops in his right ear, two in the left. Camo pants rolled up to reveal hefty combat boots, studded and buckled, and a tank top that looked like he’d taken a pair of dull scissors to a pale blue button-up, hacking off the sleeves and half the sides. The man leaned against the entryway, all sharp, comfortable insolence.
All he lacked to complete the look was spiked hair. Instead, Declan had close-cropped sides and something not unlike a short, modern fucking pompadour. The hair and boots put him at Bo’s height, so he’d probably hit 5‘7“ with them off and undone.
“The fuck,” Bo murmured, staring. Everil and his soft, flowing hair and soft, flowing clothing, the colors as gentle as he’d been most the day, stood in impossible contrast to the newcomer.
“It is … not … the case,” Everil said. The word ‘yet’ left unspoken but heavy as the tension between the pair. Or, maybe just from Everil. Declan looked right at home. “Even so, you would have been justified in refusing.”
“I’d have no social life at all, were I to shun everyone I quarrel with.” Declan, far too fucking small a man to have a voice deep enough to rattle floorboards if he weren’t careful, held Everil’s gaze. “Thehorror.”
“You were right. And I was a fool. I’m sorry,” Everil said. Declan pushed away from the doorframe with a handwave, though not a dismissive one. “Truly, Declan.”
“I don’t doubt you, Everil,” he said it almost gently. “Truly.”
Finally, Everil stepped back to stand at Bo’s side. His hand came to rest on Bo’s shoulder, a solid, comforting warmth. Bo’s skin hummed with the contact.
