In Which Sparron Presents the Pieces

January 3, 1174

Laveria's mixture left a bitter aftertaste, but at least it had done its job. The pain in Sparron's arm had dulled to a weak throbbing. Curious--or perhaps masochistic--he reclined on the couch and rested his head on the hand of the injured limb; the throbbing strengthened somewhat, but not to any significant point. Then again, he was drugged up. Maybe a suture would split under the pressure. Maybe he didn't care. If his arm was a bloody mess, then at least his stepmother wouldn't be able to slather the wound with any more of that vile-smelling salve Hilla had whipped up.

How had it all gone so wrong anyway? His timing couldn't have been more ideal. His stepmother had been down for her nap and his father had been en route to Veldora, taking the children with him. Camaline had just left for Armion--but as it turned out, she'd forgotten her hat and had rushed back, only to find him lying half-delirious on the bedroom floor, drenched in his own blood. The next thing he knew, he'd woken in bed a few days later, his arm all stitched up and his father and sister at his bedside, anxious and confused and relieved. Nothing had gone according to plan, all thanks to Camaline and her stupid hat. How had someone as meticulous as Camaline forgotten a hat, anyway? It was almost proof that there was a God, and a cruel one at that.

Someone knocked--probably Holladrin with that damned mixture again. Sparron rolled his eyes. "Yes?"

The door opened, but no nauseating smell wafted into his nose. The footsteps were those of leather boots, not dainty silk slippers. Sparron pushed himself up and glanced over his shoulder. "Searle?"

Searle shut the door and locked it before turning back to him. The boy's eyes were wide and fearful, his pouty lip a-quiver. Ashamed, Sparron shifted his gaze to the empty fireplace; there was no greater pain than the face of one's victim.

Searle paced to the other side of the couch and choked back a sob. "Why?"

He didn't answer. He just rose to his feet and sighed. "Searle..."

"I'm sorry!" Searle's words set Sparron's spine ablaze. Why was he apologizing? He couldn't really have thought... "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you jealous. I didn't want you to think I picked Lettie over you, I just--"

"Searle--"

"I should have come to see you." Searle held back his head and stared at the ceiling, the tears in the corners of his eyes like crystals in the glass-filtered sunlight. "I thought you didn't want to see me, but I should have come anyway. I should have come and told you..." He trailed off, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. The crystals may have been no more, but that dark blue sparkled like sapphires. "God, why didn't I come and see you? I almost killed you!"

What? Alarmed, Sparron stepped around the couch and reached for Searle's trembling hand. Lettie's band burned against his flesh, but it didn't matter just then. "I almost killed me. You did nothing wrong."

Stifling another wail, Searle shook his head. "I was avoiding you--"

"Only because I'm horrible to you."

He'd caught him off-guard--but how? He hadn't said anything Searle didn't already know. "Look, Searle... I'm sorry, alright? I was sinking and I shouldn't have pulled you down with me."

Poor boy just looked confused. As if he wasn't confused enough. As if Sparron himself wasn't the root cause of all that. "What are you talking about?"

"Everything." Biting his lip, he let go of Searle's hand and eased himself onto the bed behind him, curling into a fetal position. He'd given up on things ever getting better for him, but maybe there was still hope for Searle. "I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have. I'm ending this--for real this time. You'll be better off."

Searle's eyebrows drooped to a gentle slope. It must have been agony to have one's heart handed back in pieces, but it was better this way. Sparron couldn't break it any further if it was no longer in his hands. Maybe Arletta could put it back together. "Sparron..."

"Don't." His heart raced and his arm pulsed. He ran his free hand along the site of the stitches, expecting to find blood, almost disappointed when he didn't. "Go home to your wife, Searle. You can still be happy. It's not too late for you."

He hated to see Searle so crestfallen, but it had been necessary. He was weak and damned and the only thing he could do was save this beautiful boy from his toxic love. Searle would thank him some day. "What are you waiting for? Go."

There was no crueler sight in the world than that of a wounded paramour. It had once been a game of Sparron's peers to throw rocks at the sun. He knew now that he never could have knocked it down, but nevertheless he thought he knew how it would have felt. I'm sorry, Searle.

The other boy stood for a moment, shocked and spurned and saddened. Sparron waited for him to say something conclusive before storming out--some groin-shot insult, or some heart-shattering plea--but he only shook his head. "No."

Before Sparron could protest, Searle had joined him on the mattress. He wedged himself between Sparron's legs and ran his hand along the curve of his jawline. He used to like to leave kisses along that ridge, but rarely had Sparron let him do so. "You don't have to be alone."

"It's too late for me."

"No." Searle leaned forward and laid a firm kiss on Sparron's mouth. His honey lips were sweet relief in light of the pungent mixture of a half-hour prior. Their mouths lingered for a moment or so until Searle finally pulled back, running his hand through Sparron's hair. "I used to think you were an insensitive ass. I don't think that anymore."

The fingers on Sparron's left hand twitched. They'd done so on occasion since the injury. He'd tried to keep it a secret, but he supposed Searle had felt them against his side. Poor boy just had to bear the brunt of all his weakness, didn't he? "Why not? I am an insensitive ass."

"No--you're the exact opposite." Fingers far thinner and nimbler than Sparron's own spastic set tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "You feel too much. You feel so many things at once. You feel more than one person can handle, especially someone as rational as you. You get overwhelmed and it's easier to tell yourself you don't feel anything at all. That's what it is, isn't it?"

Sparron stiffened. "Please don't try to get into my head."

"I'm not." Searle reached back and grabbed hold of Sparron's good hand. It was warm and soft and he wanted so badly to squeeze it and never let go. "I'm trying to get into your heart.

"Look... my stepmother's due in March. She's asked Lettie to attend the birth. Come stay at my castle with me? I'll tell the servants I'm going hunting and I'll let them have the time off. No one will ever have to know."

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