“What is there for us to talk about, Nikoly of the Astvan?” Tiiran demanded around a mouthful of bread and then a quick, pained swallow of water. “I don’t understand things as quickly as others do. That’s not your fault, but you could leave me to be humiliated in peace.”
“Humiliated?” Nikoly reached out. “I could help you, if you talked to me. I want to help. Not anger you or… embarrass you?” It held a question. “How did I do that? Please tell me.”
Tiiran looked away. “Orin says my temper isn’t temper.” A poetry-and-roses way of saying Tiiran lashed out like an animal when afraid. “I’m not mad at you,” he told the window. “I’m mad at myself. And I work better on my own. Always have.”
“Do you?”
Tiiran turned in astonishment at the challenging tone.
Nikoly sat back and raised his chin. “I’m here to help. I will be here, honey—Tiiran. You should get some rest. Tell me what else you need done today and I’ll do it while you sleep. That window seat should fit you.”
Tiiran barely kept from sputtering. “I don’t take orders from you.”
Nikoly regarded him evenly. “No, I take them from you… if you’d grace me with one, worthy Tiiran.”
A wheeze escaped from deep within Tiiran’s chest.
“And I’m not making fun of you,” Nikoly added, rising gracefully to his feet. Tiiran leaned back to look up at him. “Or out to humiliate you, a charge I still don’t understand.”
“You and Orin think you’re so clever,” Tiiran muttered at last. “Fine. The tiniest office, in the back, on this floor. I think it should be cleared for Mattin’s use. Which will take a while since it’s a mess and we don’t have time. But he’s our acting Master Keeper and he needs a space.”
Nikoly’s smile returned, as warm and bright as the rest of him. “What about you?”
“I can work wherever.” Tiiran went back to painful swallows of stew but caught how Nikoly closed his mouth hard and then worked his jaw before nodding.
“I won’t argue, for now.” Nikoly poured more water into Tiiran’s cup, a well-trained courtier and puffed-up puppy. “You’ll rest more after you finish eating?”
“Or what? You’ll tell Orin?” Tiiran snipped, but was helpless and fascinated in the face of Nikoly’s ever-warming stare.
“Or you’ll make me sad, which seems to bother you,” Nikoly murmured, then ducked his head before taking his tray and slipping from the room.
Tiiran sat stunned once he was gone, feeling vaguely as if he was playing another game where everyone else knew the rules.
Then he realized he knew at least one: don’t make Nikoly sad.
“Fucksticks,” he said out loud.
When Tiiran opened his eyes and realized he was curled up in the afternoon sun on the window seat because he must have fallen asleep at the desk, he sighed deeply but didn’t move. An embroidered robe of dark blue had been tucked around him like a blanket. He was warm, and did indeed fit on the window seat—snugly, but he fit.
Stubborn sunflower, giving Tiiran nicer treatment than he deserved after Tiiran clawing at him all day.Over my knee, he could hear Orin threaten, and imagined this was the Nikoly version. Of course, then he heard Orin praising Nikoly, sayingExcellent work, pup, and wanted to hide under his blanket.
Which was Nikoly’s robe.
Tiiran sniffed it, but still couldn’t smell much of anything. Not a hint of what Nikoly might smell like. Tiiran was destined to always be close to what he wanted, but ultimately denied it.
He dropped the robe like it was on fire when Nikoly floated into the office, a book under his arm, a steaming cup in his hand. Nikoly smiled when he saw Tiiran was awake and gazed happily down at him, distractedly underdressed without his robe. Once again, the top of his shirt was unlaced, the markings that said he liked to be useful fully on display.
Tiiran sat up, Nikoly’s robe falling to his lap.
As if in reward, Nikoly handed him the cup. Then, once Tiiran had inhaled the steam and tried a sip of tea, handed him the book as well.
“Some more poems you might like.”
Tiiran ran his fingertips over the cover, then opened it to see some library assistant’s handwriting informing him the book was a copy of a series of poems attributed to a warrior in service of a queen from centuries ago.
“The poem was for Orin.” Tiiran noted the assistant’s signature before closing the book. “But you probably guessed all about that.” Something else Tiiran had noticed too late.
“Did you ever give it to him?” Nikoly watched Tiiran gently place the book aside, not quite frowning, but with a slight air of displeasure.
