Page 49 of The House of the Red Balconies

“I may not be very good at this,” he warned, and before Zo could say something comforting in reply, he knelt up to bring his lips to Zo’s and brushed them across, a little parted.

His body felt alight with the thrill of that contact. He did it again, softening his mouth against Zo’s. Zo received his kisses like a pool filling with water, effortlessly welcoming.

Eventually Hylas drew back, knowing that by some miracle, even though he had dared so little, he had done well. He could see that in the way Zo was looking at him.

Still he was not quite prepared for Zo to slide down off the top step into his lap. Hylas stiffened with surprise, Zo’s whole soft, warm body suddenly in his arms. Reflexively, Hylas hugged him to his chest. Zo gripped his shoulders and shook with laughter, surprised in his turn.

“I was just going to kiss you again,” Zo said.

“Sorry.” Hylas let go of him.

“No.” Zo snuggled against him. “This is good too. This is … I’ve wanted this from you too.”

Hylas tightened his embrace again, and Zo tucked his head down against Hylas’s shoulder. They stayed like that until Zo moved against Hylas, reaching up to kiss him. This kiss was luscious and melting, Zo’s tongue slipping into Hylas’s mouth.

Zo drew back just enough to look into Hylas’s eyes. His beautiful eyebrows rose in a question.

“Yes,” Hylas replied. And it was touching to be checked on like this, a man of his age, but he couldn’t help making light of it too. “I can take it, Your Grace.”

Zo wrinkled his nose, and then he was kissing Hylas again, deep, mastering kisses. They panted against each other’s mouths. Hylas, unthinking, found himself cupping his hands under Zo’s rear to lift him up for a better angle. He almost let go in shock when he realized what he’d done, but the way Zo reacted, twining his arms around Hylas’s neck and kissing him forcefully, made it impossible to feel he had made a mistake.

Snatches of moralizing he had heard in his youth jostled in his mind: Men who would let themselves be penetrated like a fortress falling to the enemy … Always be like the sword, not like the scabbard … It was just kissing, but it felt like that, exactly like that, and he loved it.

A door opened somewhere, and there were voices down the gallery. Zo jerked back, and Hylas quickly caught him by the waist and set him back down on the step. Zo snatched up the candle Hylas had brought and shielded its light with his hand.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Zo whispered.

Hylas held out one hand to help Zo up and took the candle with the other so that Zo could gather up his robe to stand, and they made their way quietly down the stairs.

In the little anteroom outside their two doors, they paused.

“It’s been a long day for you,” said Hylas, “and I think you’re tired. I wouldn’t want to … add to that. Shall I see you in the morning?”

Zo sighed. “I am tired,” he admitted. “I want you, but I’m tired. Sometimes I hate my body.”

“Well … I don’t. I don’t know if that helps. May I come in and put you to bed, Your Grace?”

That made Zo laugh, as Hylas had hoped it would. He followed Zo into his room, lit the lamp for him, pulled back the curtain and took down his sleeping robe, then kissed him good night and left him sitting on the edge of his bed to go out through the garden door.

He was back in the morning, at the usual time. Their time, he thought—perhaps that made it fitting. He’d smiled and nodded when the kitchen staff asked him excitedly if he’d heard that their very own Zo was a prince.

He had hardly slept, his mind too busy processing the events of that evening, going over everything that had happened, everything that it meant. He felt fresh and alert, as if he’d slept long and deeply.

There was a bird singing in the garden, and the sun felt warm on Hylas’s face, in spite of the chill in the air—the world replying in small, tentative ways to the joy and anticipation in his heart. He looked toward Zo’s door just as it slid open.

“Good morning,” said Zo.

“Good morning,” said Hylas, “my prince.”

Zo beamed. His hair was loose over his shoulder, tousled with sleep, his robe carelessly tied at the waist, his feet bare. He looked like a prince—he always had, in fact, and Hylas wondered why it had come as a surprise to anyone that that was what he was.

“Come in?” Zo gestured behind him.

Hylas nodded. He was suddenly seized with nerves; his hands on the tea tray shook, and the bowls rattled betrayingly. Zo’s gaze on him was gentle.

They entered Zo’s room, leaving the garden door open behind them. Sunlight spilled over Zo’s rumpled bed. Hylas set the tray down on the table, but he did not sit, unsure what to do next, what was appropriate. Perhaps he should not have brought the tea and buns at all.

Zo was stooping over the table, catching up the trailing sleeve of his robe, in that enchanting way he had, in order to pick up the pot and pour tea into the two bowls, filling each less than halfway. He passed one to Hylas, straightening up and reaching across the table.