In Which Sparron Is Defeated

March 14, 1171

If Sparron could have found the will to lick his fingers and reach across to the end-table, he might have doused the candles. He might have curled up under the covers of Eilyssa's old bed and held the pillow above his head; it was easy to forget one's existence in the dark.

He'd been dreading Lorn and Leara's betrothal feast since the wedding date had been announced because he knew that every noble in the kingdom would be attending; in one evening, his months-long struggle to avoid Searle would be rendered pointless. He'd considered faking sick, but with his stepmother's recent bout of illness, he'd felt it would be cruel to worry his family. Instead, having learned from Jadin that he and Searle were planning on taking their little brother to the brothel that afternoon and would be late to the party as a result, Sparron had asked his father if they might head over to Armion Keep earlier--if nothing else, he figured he could at least brace himself for the imminent reunion.

When they'd first arrived, he'd endured a conversation with Lorn's sister Rona. She was young, pretty, and pleasant enough--but that was it. After she'd whisked Leara away to inquire about the wedding dress, he proceeded to Xeta. Likewise, he enjoyed her company as well, but that elusive spark never reared its head; he supposed that was just as well, seeing as she was Jadin's girl, but still.

He'd cycled through all the appropriately-aged girls before finally seeming to make some progress with Searle's little sister Riona, much to his own great relief. So what if she wasn't quite eleven and rather immature? So what if she still had her boyish hips and her bony limbs and scarcely any cleavage to speak of? So what if she resembled her brother somewhat in the face? She was still a girl.

But then Searle and his brothers had shown up. Jadin, shameless as ever, had went straight for his sweetheart, as if he hadn't just spent the past couple hours in the company of some cheap whores; Lonriad, a dizzy jig in his step and a goofy grin on his face, seemed to have reorganized his universe so that Sparron's stepmother in her revealing gown was the source of all gravity. Searle, however... all Searle had done was shoot one look Sparron's way, and that was it. The colors of the room swirled and the shapes blurred. Riona became some sort of shallow imitation, an assortment of Searle-like pieces lacking the essence of the original. Sparron himself was reduced to an unstable mass of a thousand emotions, afraid that the slightest disturbance would push him past his breaking point--and he did not want to know what might happen after that.

He'd turned away and hurried off to find his father, who'd been talking with Sir Ovrean about some upcoming tournament. Not sure what else he could do, he complained of a headache; the duchess overheard and told him he could rest in Eilyssa's old room if he wanted some space. He'd thanked her, then hurried off, hoping that no one else had seen him leave. He didn't want to be followed. He didn't want to see anyone. He didn't want anyone to see him.

But just as his luck would have it, the creaking of the door-hinges indicated otherwise. "Are you all right?"

Oh, God damn it! It was Searle, all blond hair and blue silk and heart-stopping smiles. He was the last person Sparron wanted to see--and yet, also the only person he wanted to see. "Your father said you were up here. He seemed worried; are you ill?"

Sparron swallowed. Words may have very well been beyond him at that point, but he had to say something. "Do you mind? I just want to be alone right now."

"But you've been alone for months now!" Searle kicked the door shut and locked it before turning back to Sparron and pouting. How the hell could he have been expected to refuse that? The boy looked like a sad puppy. "Look, I know you've been avoiding me, and that's your decision, but you must realize that everyone's concerned for you. I heard Holladrin talking to Nora about you a few weeks ago, and your father asked if you'd told me anything unusual, and even Jadin said you didn't seem like yourself anymore--Jadin! The most clueless ass who ever walked the earth!"

Rigid, Searle stood in wait; this was a battle he was unwilling to surrender. Sparron sighed and heaved himself off of the bed. "Just get lost, all right? Leave me alone."

The other boy didn't budge. "No."

"I don't want to see you."

"And you never will." Searle crossed the floor and cemented himself only a few feet away; he was within arms reach, more than close enough to touch. "But you have to--if not now, then at some point. Might as well just get it over with; we need to talk."

No--no, they didn't. Uneasy, Sparron looked away. "There's nothing to talk about."

Annoyed, Searle took Sparron's chin in hand and turned back his head so that they were face-to-face once more; Sparron's face flushed where he'd touched him. "Don't be an idiot. Yes, something happened and it was a bit... unexpected, perhaps, but that doesn't make it wrong; I hope you haven't been beating yourself up over that."

Did it, though? A couple of weeks after the incident, Sparron had paid his Uncle Septimus a visit by means of the chapel confessional. He'd first tried to avert suspicion by displacing the situation: Father, I saw two servants expressing their love--only, they were both women. Is that wrong? In response, the priest had given a devilish chuckle: Not if I'd been there to see it, it isn't!

That hadn't been helpful, so he'd had to take the next step: Would it have been the same with two men, then?

That... that had turned out somewhat differently. His uncle's laughter had ceased, a grave silence taking its place. Now that, my boy... that would be very wrong indeed.

Sparron knew his uncle wasn't a prime example of priesthood, but it wasn't as if Father Septimus was unfamiliar with the scriptures; he just felt free to ignore all those with which he disagreed. Sparron himself, on the other hand, was not so bold. "Just go, Searle; everyone down there must be missing you."

"They don't need me, though."

"And you think I do?" Not for the first time, he tried to assure himself that he didn't.

But Searle nodded. "A little bit, yes. I just... well, you hurt me, you know. You hurt me really badly, and it still hurts a little, but a while ago it dawned on me that you were hurting just that much more, you know? You keep everything inside until it starts to turn toxic--now, don't look at me like that, I promise you I didn't tell anyone," he added hastily, noting Sparron's sudden panic. "I don't know what it is about you, really. I guess I know how to put on a brave face and start looking for the good things in life again. You, on the other hand... you're a brooder. All you know how to do is wallow in your own misery."

Sparron sniffed. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Well... no," Searle admitted, in spite of the grin growing on his face, "but I can help you, if you want. I mean, I think we could make that day the start of something good. I know that we can't let anyone know about this, but it'll be easier for both of us if we can get everything out of our systems."

Alarmed, Sparron raised an eyebrow. Surely he did not mean...

"But I wouldn't want it to be just a one time thing." So he did mean... that. Sparron felt the sudden urge to climb onto the bed and throw himself through the stained-glass window--not because the thing had been suggested, but because it actually sounded appealing. "It's not like meeting some stable girl for a quick roll in the hay, you know. I mean, all these months later and I'm still thinking about you, and I know you wouldn't be acting the way you are if you didn't still think about me too--but on the other hand, it doesn't have to be forever either, if you don't want it to be."

Stupid kid didn't even know what he was saying; like his sister's rag doll, Sparron slumped to the floor and leaned back against the night-table. "You don't get it."

Searle sighed. "Sparron..."

"It's different for me, all right?" Different--now that it had been said, the word was free to dance in front of his eyes in flashing colors, more obnoxious every time he tried to look away. Searle didn't understand, and he never would. Searle had just come from a brothel; Searle liked chatting up maids and fucking them in broom cupboards. Sparron wasn't like that. Sparron was awkward and aloof and got about as much excitement from a girl as he might have from a loaf of bread. A couple times now he had tried hitting the sack with the maids, just to convince himself that there was nothing wrong with him, but he'd never achieved that reassurance; instead, he'd found he could only follow through if he pictured Searle's face the entire time.

His eyes wide and his mouth agape, Searle lowered himself to his knees and edged nearer. "It doesn't have to be."

But it did--it did and it was and he could never tell anyone. "Just go away."

"No." Searle placed his hands on Sparron's shoulders and inclined so that their heads met, the tip of his straight, perfect nose rubbing against the bridge of Sparron's own lumpy excuse for a facial feature. "Not until you're feeling better."

Sparron couldn't take it anymore. Defeated, his arms flung themselves around Searle's form and pulled him forward, pressing the other boy to the hardwood as he kissed him.

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