Osian held him close, almost to the point of pain. Then he kissed his hair and temple and cheek in answer. The only answer he was ever going to give, even as Meilyr’s heart keened in protest. ‘You should get ready,’ Osian murmured into his hair.
Neither of them moved.
Finally, Osian withdrew. Meilyr let him set his feet back on the floor, and their eyes met before the prince stepped away towards the bedchamber, where Meilyr’s things waited.
He still could not move. His blood thumped, want pulsing with pain. Not-yet grief.
He did not want to leave Osian. He wanted Osian to come with him, wanted them to be gone from this place, and this danger and the beast of Khaim. He wanted him to come with him. He wanted him.
But Osian was right, damn them both, he was. Eventually, Khaim would find the sorcerer. Whatever happened with the Marcher Lords would happen, and Meilyr certainly had no power to stop it. Eventually, the search for him and Celyn would end. That could never happen if Osian went with them. A deserting prince, he would be hunted to the ends of the world. He would be hunted to his death.
If Meilyr could have kept him safe, he would have damned it. Would have pulled him with him, no matter how long they would have needed to run for.
But Osian would never be safe. Celyn would never be safe. None of them would ever be safe.
Meilyr could not risk them, just for the sake of his own heart.
In a daze, he moved to the bedchamber. Osian was needlessly checking the bundle of items set on one of the dressers: a nondescript woollen cloak and their plainest clothes, Meilyr’s dagger, several small pouches of medicines and poultices, useful plants and supplies, a different pouch of food and a waterskin.
It was very dark outside. The rain chased itself relentlessly down the windows. In the dim light from the hearth and the candles, Osian’s hair was woven starlight and gold. The certainty of his broad shoulders seemed so very far away, across the chasm at Meilyr’s feet.
He had to leave him. He had to leave without him.
But ithurt.
He had to shut his heart away. He had to…
Osian turned, and whatever the prince had been going to say died upon his lips. Behind his walls, behind his attempts at shielding Meilyr from his own wants and desires and his fears and aches, he felt it too. He was coming undone, even as he tried to bury it.
Gods, how little he allowed himself tobe.
Just like Meilyr.
Meilyr went to him, letting the tide pull them together. It was a strain to stop before him, not yet touching. But he had to talk, had to find a way to tell him. To show him.
‘On that first day, you told me you would never force someone into unwanted physicality.’ Heat stole his voice but he pushed on, holding Osian’s beautiful, questioning gaze. ‘You would not do anything I did not want you to. Is that still true, here? Now?’
Osian’s reply loosed like an arrow shot through his own chest. ‘Yes.’
Meilyr’s pulse thrummed. ‘Would you sit on the bed for me, please?’
Osian went, not taking his eyes from him.
Meilyr came to stand before his knees and deliberately – giving him time to stop him – touched his hair, his temple. The small braid that ran from it, symbolising their vow.
The tips of his fingers buzzed with the slow build of static, thepullto maintain, to deepen.
Gods.
‘Ask me.’
The dazed look on Osian’s face piqued the hunger in his flesh. ‘What?’
‘Ask me what I want, My Prince. Ask me.’
Recognition bloomed, heat beneath it. Osian was cautious, saying it slowly. ‘Meilyr… what do you want?’
Meilyr slid his knee onto the bed and climbed into his lap.