Honovi dug up a pair of scissors from the writing desk sharp enough for the job at hand while Blaine sat backward on the desk chair. The thick length of his braid fell down his back, the color lighter than Honovi’s, always tucked beneath a leather flight jacket and cap when on an airship.
Blaine had never been one for hair adornments, even during festivals, preferring the simple beaded clan ribbon twined through the plait over anything else. Honovi was used to the catch of metal in his own hair, the weight of his rank twisted through the mohawk and braid he’d worn for years. It was easier to undo Blaine’s plait than his own, removing the tie at the end to separate the three sections.
Honovi gently tugged the clans ribbon free of the thick strands, the intricate beadwork cool against his palm. He tucked it away in his pocket before fetching a comb from the washroom across the hall to work the teeth of it through the blond waves of Blaine’s hair. It might have been easier to chop it all off when it was still braided, but Honovi had wanted Blaine to keep the clans ribbon the way he’d kept that ring.
The snip of the scissors cutting through hair sounded overloud in the room. Blaine’s breath caught in his throat, the sound barely audible, but Honovi heard it anyway. He kept cutting, blond hair falling to the floor in chunks, and he tried not to feel ill. When it was done, and the trim was as even as it could be, Honovi combed Blaine’s hair back into a loose queue, using the clans ribbon to tie it into place.
“There,” he said in a rough voice. “It’s done.”
He stepped back, watching as Blaine lifted a hand to touch what remained, fingers carding through the loose strands. “It feels strange.”
Honovi didn’t think he was only talking about his hair.
But it was over now, the years he’d grown up as clan scattered on the floor. Honovi stepped over the shorn locks, catching Blaine up in a kiss that turned into another and another, until they were gasping into each other’s mouths.
It was easy, then, to guide Blaine back into the bedroom. Easy to shove everything off the bed and push his husband down onto the mattress, to strip them both of their clothes the way he’d done to Blaine’s history here.
Honovi didn’t temper his hands or his mouth, didn’t soften the blow of being left behind by being gentle or slow. He sucked bruises into Blaine’s skin, bit at his collarbone, and stroked him to hardness with dry fingers until Blaine squirmed in his arms from the rough handling.
“Please,” Blaine whispered against his mouth when Honovi reached for the jar of oil ever present in their nightstand drawer.
He was too impatient to go slow and pushed two fingers inside Blaine without stopping. The sound his husband made had Honovi hiding his face against Blaine’s neck, licking at the skin there.
“Please,” Blaine begged again, and Honovi couldn’t deny either of them this memory.
He worked Blaine open with skill born from years of touching each other this way. When Honovi finally sank into him, Blaine tipped his head back with a choked-off cry, eyes squeezed shut, the short strands of his hair twisted against the pillow.
Honovi hated the sight of Blaine like that but loved him all the same, and it was easy, so easy, to pull out and thrust back in, to chase a pleasure neither knew when they’d get again. Honovi held Blaine down and fucked him until it almost hurt, until Blaine came with a sob, holding Honovi close and kissing an apology to his lips.
Honovi came moments after Blaine, too keyed up to make it last, grinding in deep as his climax punched through his body. Blaine cradled him close in the aftermath, both of them a sticky mess, in no hurry just yet to move.
Blaine stroked a hand over Honovi’s back, fingers ghosting over his braid, tracing what he’d given up. His embrace lacked the joy of a long-haul flight well done, of negotiations won, grip tinged with a desperate uncertainty Honovi could almost taste.
“I need to finish packing,” Blaine said in the quiet that had settled around them.
Honovi closed his eyes, holding Blaine tight for as long as he could. “I’ll help.”
Because he always had. Because that was his duty asjarland Blaine’s husband.
Seven
BLAINE
The motor carriage drove through the streets of Glencoe, the sound of its engine taking up space where words should be. Blaine glanced at where Honovi sat in the driver’s seat, both hands on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. They’d passed through the last inner defensive wall, the buildings in this area of Glencoe of newer architecture. Even in the gas lamp-lit streets, Blaine could see that.
He could also see how much Honovi wanted to turn the motor carriage around and drive them both away from the inevitable.
“You didn’t have to come,” Blaine said quietly. They’d already said their goodbyes in private, pressed the words into skin.
Honovi slanted him an unreadable look. “What sort of husband would that make me if I didn’t see you off?”
Blaine reached across the bench and settled his hand on Honovi’s thigh, needing the contact. “I’d rather leave you surrounded by clan than by yourself on the docks.”
Honovi looked back at the street as he maneuvered the motor carriage through the evening bustle of dockworkers heading home for the night. However deep his anger ran, it didn’t stop him from covering Blaine’s hand with his own. Blaine was glad for his touch.
“The Dusk Star decreed you were clan until she said otherwise, and she hasn’t. You’re following the North Star’s order here, but I want you to remember you’ll always be clan.”
Blaine swallowed tightly at those words and turned his hand upside down so he could slide his fingers between Honovi’s. He lifted his husband’s hand to his mouth to brush a kiss over warm knuckles. “I’ll always be yours.”
