Bo’s laugh was brief and self-deprecating. Everil could feel the sour twist of shame behind it.
“I really wanted it to be true. My job is going to places people say are haunted or where they saw a mythical creature or cryptid. I look around, try to find it, and figure out what could have happened to make people think it was real. Urban legend debunking kind of shit. I always go hoping to find something, though.” Bo’s gaze roved from Everil’s face to his hands and back again. “And anyway, you showed me. With the drink, remember? If you’d said it flat out, I would’ve assumed you were punking me as a fan or something. Made it easier to listen after the hot chocolate appeared. Kept me from a panic attack, at any rate.”
“In my experience, ‘my name is Everil, and I’m a flesh-eating horse,’ rarely makes the best of first impressions. A warm drink is generally more welcome.” Everil allowed the words to hang between them, hoping to draw another crooked smile from Bo.
And, somehow, he did.
“Have that conversation a lot, do you?” Bo asked, still with that smile.
“Thankfully not.” Everil fell silent, groping for words. Some form of reassurance. He didn’t like it, the sourness of shame as Bo admitted tohope. “There are those among the fae who believe our current reserve is unwise. They feel it disrupts a balance between immediacy and permanence. The certain and the sublime.” How to explain in a way Bomight hear? “They would say that humans are built to seek wonder, just as fae are meant to look for the weight of certainty.”
They were not, perhaps, the correct words. Bo’s expression hardened.
“Considering I spent at least ten minutes laughing and crying while telling you that, ‘holy fuck, Everil, you’re real,’ and feeling something like whole for the first time in about twenty years, I think we know what side of the argument I fall on.” There was challenge in Bo’s tone. “What about you?”
A test. This was a test. Bo would be pleased if Everil’s answer was simple and direct. Bo had taken Everil’s side. It was only fair that Everil took Bo’s as well.
“I fear I might not have an answer for you,” he said, meeting Bo’s gaze despite his desire to stare at his hands. “It’s a question I’ve been considering for the past century. A century I spent on this side of the veil, so I cannot claim to be opposed. But I’ve seen what happens when fae are allowed their way with humans. I’m not certain we deserve balance if it comes at so high a cost.”
“That’s fucking valid. I haven’t seen what you have. Maybe there need to be more flesh-eating horses and punk sluagh swanning around finding humans amusing to figure it out.”
“Maybe,” Everil conceded. “I confess I wouldn’t wish to deny Talia her waitresses or grizzled old men. Nor myself that moment beside the river.”
He smiled, just barely, embarrassed by the truth of it. By how deeply he had felt Bo’s kindness in that moment. Bo met Everil’s smile with his own.
“So, you know, I meant everything I said by the river. I know you could probably tell, since,” Bo gestured between them, “but it’s getting said anyway now that I’m not currently overrun with feelings.”
“You’ve yet to give me reason to doubt your sincerity. Though I fear my recall is somewhat limited.”
Everil didn’t question Bo’s feelings. He questioned their genesis. It’d become very clear, there by the river, how dangerously an emotion could grow amplified between them. Which was to say, he’d come very close to pinning the man to the ground and tearing him free of his clothes.
He’d told Bo that the river didn’t ride him, and it was true. That implied a separation that didn’t exist. Everil was the sharp, unexpected tug of a swift current just as much as was the man sitting at the table, trying not to remember the way Bo’s voice sounded when scorched by lust.
“Well, anything you do, I meant it. Mean it.” Bo fell silent a moment, then added, “Except the ‘no, I’m not cold’ bit. I was fucking freezing until you decided to come over and figure out what my jacket was made of. I stand by the rest of it.”
It would be better to pretend not to remember than admit to being in control of his faculties while clinging to Bo, naked and hard with uninvited lust.
“I remember all that was said while I stood on two feet. For my part, I spoke more freely than I should have.” Much more freely. “But I spoke truly. I wouldn’t dishonor my name by lying.”
“The majority of what was said while you were on four were variants of ‘holy fuck, Everil, you’re real.’ You didn’t miss much.” Bo grinned at him, for all the world like he wasn’t offended, though he must be. “I don’t know about ‘should.’ You giving me shit right back on my survival instinct was kind of great, and you’d already told me I tasted like candy. I hope I didn’t give you a reason to think you should apologize for–fuck–I don’t know. Existing? It was awesome, and a kelpie’s going to do what kelpies do. I just happen to be amusing. And alluring, to those not in hooved form.”
An apology for existing. And why shouldn’t he apologize? It’d taken centuries for Everil to learn to hold his own reins, locking his feelings down instead of letting them show. And here was Bo, so ready to excuse what Everil knew to contain.
Everil mustn’t give in to such temptations. Sometimes, even still, the reins nearly slipped through his fingers. Rivers inevitably overflowed their banks when storms or snowmelt overwhelmed them.
It felt like that, talking to Bo. Like trying to contain himself in a channel grown too narrow. Everil couldn’t remember the last time it’d been so difficult to simplybehave. Even when he’d failed in every other way, when he couldn’t charm or comfort or predict, he’d grasped the rules. Followed Protocol and used the structure like a shield.
“Be that as it may. What you call ‘awesome,’ my people would call ill-mannered and reckless. We are, all of us, tied to deeper forces. Protocol keeps those forces in check.” Everil shook his head, dismissing his own words. He was rambling on a topic that Bo had no reason to care about. “But you were speaking of obligations discharged. I didn’t intend to overtake the conversation.”
“No, you’re good,” Bo reassured. He was forever attempting to reassure, and Everil didn’t know why. “With the– You said that you took something not yours to take. That you were unwell. Still are. I felt the drain you talked about, but it was just being really tired for a bit. Get worse jet lag, like I said. It wasn’t a big deal to me.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been fucked up about what my parents did for half my life, you know? Can’t trust things I can’t touch. If it can be explained away, it’s not real. And you didn’t have to invite me. I wouldn’t have tried to muscle in on your errand. Magic is magic; you’re human-shaped, most of the time. Two legs. It’s not…”
“Readily evident?” Everil suggested when Bo trailed into silence.
“Sure.” Bo lowered his gaze to his plate. “Look. I’m still not ‘well,’ but it meant a lot, seeing you and having that click in place. I meant it when I said I felt whole for the first time in a long time. It might’ve been just another day in the river for you, which is more than okay, but it wasn’t for me. Just because I didn’t lick your aura doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”
