The prince’s concern persisted, surprisingly reassuring. Yet it had not fully chased away the other things Osian had felt in the Throne Room, and Meilyr found himself staring at the way he looked out through the flowers, his hands bunched, fingers tightly twisting the red-jewelled ring on his thumb.
‘Why did you and your brother choose to leave Gorsedd Arian? Why come to Eascild?’
The question almost pitched Meilyr sideways. ‘What?’
The prince flexed his hand. ‘No matter, I did not mean to pry. I only…’
Meilyr took another steadying breath and found the truth pressing softly at the roof of his mouth, ready to bud. ‘Idwal, Celyn’s father. It was his dying wish that I take over his sister, Lowri’s, apothecary. I had spent months of most years of my life here before that, apprenticed to her.’
Once, the idea of living in Eascild had been near petrifying. But he could not have denied his foster-father’s final hope.
Something came into Osian’s gaze, and even the bond could not help Meilyr decipher it. ‘I see,’ the prince said quietly. Hesitation built in the wake of whatever it was he felt. ‘There is one other thing. Gelens may also have been sent to confirm our marriage.’
Meilyr had guessed that, but it chilled him again to hear it confirmed. ‘So, we need to convince them. How do we convince an Ectheid?’
‘They will consider what they witness almost as much as what they are able to touch. If we continue to convince the court, it may be enough.’
Would it be?
‘Surface thoughts,’ Meilyr mused. ‘That was why you pulled me away.’
A flash of guilt. ‘I had to tell you. Gelens’ abilities are not common knowledge, and they use that to their advantage.’
What an advantage it was. Meilyr did not ever want to touch the king’s adviser again, but court provided so many ridiculous situations where it would be considered odd or rude not to. An Ectheid made for an irreplaceable tool to the Crown.
There was only one thing for it. He pushed himself unsteadily off the bench and handed back the tunic. ‘Then, we convince them. All of them.’
But he swayed, and the prince steadied him under his arms. ‘They can be convinced in a moment, please.’
The contact echoed back to their earlier closeness, and Meilyr’s heart tripped over a beat. ‘Forgive my earlier condition, Majesty.’ He pressed on before the prince could stop him. ‘I am fine, let us return inside.’
The prince obviously did not believe him, but it did not matter. ‘Very well,’ Osian said. ‘But let us only make a brief reappearance. I have had all I can bear.’ He swept back into his tunic and began to fasten each of its tiny buttons, a match to Meilyr’s own.
‘Wait,’ Meilyr said.
The prince stilled.
Meilyr unfastened the top two buttons of his own tunic. Osian remained frozen, so he stepped back into the prince’s orbit and brushed aside his hands to undo his top buttons as well. ‘We disappeared into the dark together,’ he explained, a different sort of heat returning to his cheeks. ‘It might help if we look…’ As though they had done more than talk.
The understanding that dawned across Osian’s face did something to Meilyr. He could not help staring at the prince’s hands as they finally moved and Osian undid the buttons of his own under-tunic, spreading his collar to expose the strong curve of his neck.
An idea that could only have been born of the wine blossomed.
Guilty thorns stung in reprimand, but as he caught the prince staring at his buttons, Meilyr had the sudden, shattering realisation that Osian had had the same thought.
It was ridiculous, but certainly one way to convince an Ectheid.
He laid a hand on the prince’s chest, that action also easier than it should have been. ‘We could…’
Any doubt remaining that Osian had missed his intent evaporated as Meilyr tapped twice with his finger, and the prince’s arm came up around him to press three times just above the small of his back:may I, andyes. The pressure held on Osian’s third press, as though to ensure it was not mistaken for a fourth.
‘Are you certain?’ Meilyr asked, barely audible. He leaned up, having to steady himself against the prince. ‘It might hurt,’ he warned.
Osian’s only response was to angle his neck closer and firm his hold on Meilyr’s back. The three presses came again, just as resolute as before.
The warmth of his skin was heady even before contact, then heart-wrenchingly soft under Meilyr’s mouth. The sensation and Osian’s scent enveloped him and coursed fire straight to his lowest insides. His heart was in his mouth, thrumming in his teeth and his tongue as he used them exactingly: a series of drawn-out drags on Osian’s delicate flesh, to hopefully bring out a convincing bruise.
The salt of him, the tensed pressure of his hand low on Meilyr’s back, nearly took the last of Meilyr’s sense. Then unmistakeable desire piqued through the bond, and Osian’s throat bobbed as his lungs caught and he forgot to breathe.