“Save me,” Bo interjected as he shrugged out of his torn jacket. “Fucking dryads.”
“He will not trouble you again.” Everil focused on the ends of his hair, dragging the brush through with sharp, hard strokes. “I believe we can forgo a ward. Perhaps not if you are alone, but I am present. I … should have been present. I apologize.”
Bo continued to undress, pulling off his hoodie and briefly exposing a stretch of his abdomen in the effort. Everil told himself he stared only for the sake of ensuring Bo bore no cuts or scratches.
He was a bad liar.
The brush caught on a twig, and Everil pulled more sharply. Better to think on that than stew in the guilt and shame that he knew Bo would read from him, only making the circumstance worse.
Eyes down, he didn’t see Bo moving closer. But he could feel it. While it no longer hurt to be out of Bo’s immediate presence, it still feltgoodwhen he drew near. The sweetness of his aura filled Everil’s senses, the memory of bitterness replaced by honey and vanilla. And while Everil was sure the man must be angry with him, he couldn’t feel a hint of it. Concern, yes, but not anger.
Bo crouched before him, smiling, the expression as tired as his eyes.
“Can I brush your hair?” he asked, startling Everil to renewed stillness. “I’d like to brush your hair, Everil. If that’s alright with you.”
Everil swallowed, tongue darting out to chase the phantom taste of vanilla. He’d let his hair grow after Lawrence’s death. First, from grief, then pique. It wasn’t a question anyone had ever asked him.
Was this something that was done now, among humans?
“Of course,” he murmured, holding out the brush. “You may consider any twigs you find war trophies.”
Ridiculous. Everil flinched, nearly apologizing before catching himself. Bo didn’t mind his humor.
“Yeah?” Bo took the brush with a grin. “Deal. If I find enough, maybe we can fashion little crowns of them.”
Everil waited, pretending at calm, as Bo settled himself on the bed. He could hear both their breaths, feel the shift of the mattress.
Close. Bo was close. Bo liked to be close. It was merely a byproduct of the bond. Everil would not project his own tawdry wants on the man. Not even as Bo’s cool fingers brushed over Everil’s neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
“This okay?” Bo asked as he picked slowly through the knotted strands by hand. “It’d hurt like a bitch if I went at it with a brush first and hit a future diadem piece.”
It was much more than okay. Everil tilted his head back, sighing as the constant, coiled tension threatened to ease from his shoulders.
“You needn’t worry over my comfort,” he offered. And then, because it was Bo, he added, “But yes. It’s very pleasant.”
“Awesome. Let me know if it stops being pleasant.”
Silence then, close and almost comfortable. Everil’s racing thoughts quieted, going hazy at the edges.
He’d thought he understood what it felt like, being close to a soulbond. But this time, there was no sickening thrum of disappointment below the pleasure, no nagging anxiety as he tried to puzzle out what he’d done wrong. Instead, there was the gentle tug of Bo’s fingers through his hair, more intimate than Everil had expected.
“I was glad you took me up on the offer to rest back at the parking lot.” Bo’s voice was warm. Approving. “You were fucking badass. And hey, guess we both can claim to have accidentally snacked on each other’s energy. Thanks for not being upset about the magic thing. I forgot it was even a possibility until it happened.”
Everil huffed, wordless, and shook his head. The faint pull of Bo’s fingers was comfortable, oddly secure. Like being held. It had been a long time since Everil had been held.
“Barely more than runoff.” The words came lazy, without the careful precision Everil usually managed when speaking.
“I flash-fried part of a dryad with your barely more than runoff, not even knowing that I could,” Bo murmured back. “And you scoff at being called a fucking badass. You tore through those branches like they were nothing. Fucking incredible.”
Bo’s fingers brushed over Everil’s neck and shoulder again, paired with a gentle tug that set his scalp tingling. It was unforgivably enjoyable. He should–
He would think about ‘should’ in a moment. Just one more moment.
“You may as well get some benefit from this arrangement.”
“I get plenty from this, I think,” Bo answered. “An ugly hat. Badass kelpie bond who’s secretly hilarious and has freckles. I think he thinks I’m funny too. Wise-cracking kid. Presumptuous as fuck of me to say, ‘knowing you’ll come find me if shit goes down,’ but I’m saying it anyway.”
“I will.” Everil hoped that Bo could feel the promise in the word. “Magic is merely where power meets desire. You bolster the former and provide the latter. If I acted the ‘badass,’ the credit is at your feet.”
