In Which Sparron Wakes to Worse than a Hangover

January 2, 1173

Sparron's head was pounding and his throat was parched and his eyes flinched at even the barest sliver of light as he peeled them open. Yesterday had been New Year's Day, and considering that he couldn't even remember heading back to bed, he must have had far too much to drink; good thing it had been his father's turn to host the party, really, or he might not have been a model of ideal house guest behavior, not at the party or in the waking hours after.

But the hangover made little more than a dent in his mind. There was a warm body beside him, its back to his torso. His arm was draped around the side, fitting comfortably beneath the edge of the rib cage. The skin was soft and silky and smelled of a subtle spice. He'd never woken beside a lover until he'd married Camaline, and after that... well, it hadn't felt much different than waking on his own, only confined to a mere half of the mattress. This, however--this was nice.

Maybe something had happened at the party. Maybe some combination of wine and circumstance had spun him into line, him and Camaline both. Whatever had happened, he was glad it had; it had never felt so right, lying next to her. Surely things would only get better now?

He nudged himself closer and rested his lips on her shoulder blade. He'd only ever kissed her on the face, and he couldn't remember such a sweet taste. Perhaps she was using some new sort of soap. "Morning."

"Morning." Her voice low and lacking its usual icy edge. She must have been hungover too.

He pulled her body back against his and set forth a trail of kisses from the shoulder, climbing up along the neck and settling at the base of the jaw bone. "Mmm... how drunk was I last night?"

"Just the right amount--drunk enough to want to do some wild things, but not so drunk that you weren't capable." A tender hand wrapped itself around his and squeezed; maybe it was just his foggy senses playing tricks on him, but she had a firm grip for a girl. "You were a tiger last night. I'll probably still be sore this time next week."

"The good sort of sore?" He felt her head move as she nodded. His mouth back to her flesh, he continued along the line of her face, his lips ticklish at the brush of her light, wispy...

...stubble?

The throbbing in his head and the dryness in his throat charged forth from the back of his mind and hit him with an eye-popping nausea. "Searle?!" His hand flew downward from his bedfellow's naval; sure enough, what he found could not have belonged to Camaline. "Fuck!"

He jerked away and sprang from the bed, cringing as he looked back to see a confused, tired Searle rubbing his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! "What the hell are you doing here? Where's Camaline?"

"She went to Armion with her sister--and you dragged me in here." The boy wiped his brow, a faint smile on his face. As always, his lack of urgency was both cute and irritating. "God, Sparron, you'd think it'd been years since you'd gotten laid. I'm surprised you managed to contain yourself until we got back in here--for once I had to be the one to remember to lock the door." He smirked; was he trying to be funny at a time like this?

"Get up and get dressed--now!"

Resigned, Searle eased himself upwards and slipped off the bed, scrounging around for his strewn-about clothes. "Is this that thing where you start getting all worked up and kick me out again? Because I'm not going to lie, I'm a little tired of that."

"This is not that--thing!" Scowling, Sparron grabbed his pants off the floor and pulled them on, then proceeded to his shirt and boots. "This is so much worse than that! There are rules, Searle--I told you, no spending the night!"

"But you fell asleep." Searle finished with his buttons and stepped around the bed-frame, his eyes wide and reminiscent of a wounded puppy. Why did he insist on doing this? Pushing the boundaries and nearly getting them caught and being so damn irresistible all the while? "You fell asleep, and you were holding me, and I didn't want to wake you."

"But you should have!"

"But I couldn't!" His lip was full and quivering, sad puppy eyes falling to the toes of his boots. "You looked so peaceful. You looked like you loved me."

"Never mind that!" His being stung, his soul stricken by a flaming whip. Why did Searle always have to throw that word around? "You should be at home with your family! What are they going to think when you don't show up for breakfast this morning?"

"Home? Most of them were even drunker than you were; they're probably in the guest rooms here."

"That's even worse!" Sparron clenched his fist. His wedding band burned into the flesh of his palm, but his grip only tightened. "What are we going to do when Lonriad tells your father that you never went to bed last night? We're fucked! They're going to find out and they're going to ship us both off to monasteries and that'll be the end of it!"

Searle shuddered somewhat, but Sparron got the sense that it wasn't for fear of their fate. He just didn't understand. He was a stupid child who was just on the verge of learning the hard way just how it was the world worked and he wanted to stay in his little Rainbow-and-Kitten Land forever. "Lonriad was the drunkest person in the castle! And even if he did notice I wasn't there and even if he does tell my father, then I can just and say I spent the night with your wife's maid--she was drunk too, so she won't be able to say otherwise."

"Issa doesn't drink! She's just naturally crazy!"

"Another girl, then--"

"No!" Sparron drove his boot to the ground with a hard thud!. What was the point in being quiet when they were as good as caught anyway? "You just don't get it, do you? You can't fix everything you break! This is the end of the line and there's no going back--and don't say I'm overreacting! We're caught, Searle. We're caught, and our fathers are going to disown us and they're going scratch our names out of all the records and we're going to spend the rest of our lives copying Psalms in some godforsaken scriptorium and it's all because you didn't want to wake me up!"

The edge of his fingernail pierced through the first couple layers of skin. Sparron cringed, although he'd hardly even noticed. "But you never really did care about getting caught, did you? Just thought you could declare it from the rooftops and it would all work out in the name of love? Well, congratulations, because you got what you--wait, are you crying?"

Searle brushed his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed. "No..."

"You are." Sparron's heart fluttered to his gut like a leaf from an autumn tree. He couldn't think of a sight more horrible than Searle crying. It hadn't even occurred to him that Searle could cry. "Please don't. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just--"

"Angry." Searle swallowed, another tear rolling down his cheek. "You're always angry."

Sighing, Sparron took a step forward and placed his arm around the other boy's shaking form, his fingers resting on the same shoulder he'd kissed earlier. "Not at you."

"No--you're angry at yourself." He wiped his nose with his sleeve, then pressed his hands to his face and sobbed. "You're always angry at yourself, and you take it out on me, and I'm too in love with you to c-c--"

He didn't manage the last word. The guilt and the anguish made a hangover a trivial thing. Even the fear seemed petty in comparison. "Searle..."

"I know you love me." Searle leaned to the side, landing against Sparron as he continued to sniffle into his hands. "I know you're too afraid to say it, but you don't have to, because I know. I know you love me. I just wish you'd let yourself."

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