‘Meilyr,’ Haydn began, approaching.
Meilyr raised a palm and stood. Haydn slowed.
‘Haydn,’ Meilyr said. ‘I know I am in no position to ask a favour of you, but please, might I be brought a small cutting of the old yew in the lower western terraces? And any others you happen to know of within the grounds.’
That was clearly not what Haydn had expected. His pause was heavy. ‘Of course. Meilyr, listen, about yesterday—’
‘What happened yesterday cannot happen again. Our lives – mine, yours, Celyn’s – they are forfeit if it does.’
Hurt mapped Haydn’s features. ‘I should have listened,’ he said, ‘when you asked to stop. I never meant to make you feel this way. I hate seeing you in pain.’
Meilyr’s edges softened. ‘I know, and I am sorry to have to do this, and to have made you feel as though this could happen. I never meant to hurt you, not now, and not before.’
Haydn exhaled quietly. ‘I know your… position here is complicated. I only…’ He grimaced. ‘Having to watch you be paraded on his arm? Thinking what he…’ He shook his head, ridding himself of the taste of the words. ‘I’m sorry, Meilyr, but he cannot own you. Not your heart.’
‘He saw us yesterday.’ Meilyr had hoped to spare this barb, but there was nothing else for it. ‘It is only by his mercy that you and I and Celyn are still breathing.’
‘He saw us? How? How could he possibly?’
‘He came to help, and saw. It cannot happen again.’
Haydn’s shock and panic rolled into something like frustration. ‘So, it’s his voice in your words? Is he making you tell me this?’
‘No, that—’
‘He cannot own your heart, Meilyr.’ Haydn moved closer, bristling. ‘If you… if you want to stop, then tell me. But say it with your whole damn chest, or I’ll know it’s only your fear. Only him.’
‘Only my fear? My brother’s life, your life—’
Suddenly, Haydn was close: tall and blistering. ‘He doesn’t have to know.’
He cupped Meilyr’s face and slipped his other arm around his waist, ducking his head—
Meilyr covered Haydn’s mouth with his hand, leaning away.
The memory of old laughter. Soft lips in soft grasses. Heat, beneath the whisper of autumn leaves.
Haydn wanted him, in all the ways that want had led them before. Until Meilyr’s own desire had burned out in a panicked instant when his heart caught up. When his mind screamed so loudly all the pyres went out.
But this was not just about that. This was about the other turmoil in his chest, aching so fiercely his blood rose in protective fury.
A petunia in the nearest window box twitched.
‘Haydn,’ he said, removing his hand. ‘Stop. Please.’
Haydn regarded him, surprised and hurt. ‘Gods, you… mean it, don’t you.’
Meilyr nodded, stiffly. His eyes stung. Haydn’s pain almost hurt more than staying silent, but only almost. He could not give in this time.
Not ever again.
Haydn slumped, only loosely embracing him now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry, Meilyr. I only, how we used to be…’
Meilyr gripped him slackly. ‘I know. I am sorry.’
‘Please, don’t.’ Haydn’s voice was gentle now. ‘Please don’t apologise for being honest with me. That’s all I want.’
Meilyr’s hands shook. The roar of his blood quietened, but he could still hear it: a great beast moving away through the wood.