In Which Searle Has an Almost Perfect Morning

March 16, 1179

There must have been some connection between the nose and the eyelids of which Searle had not been aware. As the smell of fresh bread wafted into his nostrils, his lashes pried apart, features of the vaguely familiar bedroom coming into focus. Ornate paneling... furniture in taupe... yes, he thought he remembered it from the night before. He hadn't been quite drunk, but the rush of his impulsiveness must have had a similar effect. "Mmm?"

"Good morning."

"Morning."

Searle propped himself on his elbows to see Casimiro standing by the foot of the bed, grinning at him. He tried to smile back, but he feared his puzzlement showed. Until last night, he'd never slept with a man who wasn't Sparron, and the first thing Sparron ever did after sex was dependent on the location; he'd leave, or he'd make Searle leave, and there was always hell to pay after accidentally spending the night. Casimiro didn't look like he had any intention of kicking Searle out and that was confusing. Was this what men normally did? Or was it just him?

"Sorry for not waking you. I realize you might have wanted to go home, but you fell asleep shortly after we were done and you looked so damn cute I just couldn't bear to disturb you."

Huh. He might have said something similar to Sparron once, but it was difficult to say. Sparron owned so much of his mind that all those thoughts and memories had begun to overlap. "It's all right. Lettie and I have an understanding."

Or did they? Did that understanding apply to everyone? Just men? Just Sparron? It hadn't mattered before.

Casimiro laughed. "How did you manage to land a woman like that?"

God, that seemed forever ago now. Sparron, his father, Aunt Renata, Lettie... he didn't think he could relate the whole story if he tried. "It's complicated."

"Oh." The other man didn't press further. For that, Searle was grateful. "Well, if I ever get married, I hope I can be half as lucky."

"Mmm," Searle hummed as he got out of bed and fished his braises off the floor, though it had been months since he would have called himself lucky. He hadn't called himself much since the night Sparron had ripped his heart of his chest and flung the pieces around the wine cellar, or at least not much good. But maybe he was lucky for Lettie. She put up with everything and he wasn't worth it.

"Anyway. I got some bread from the kitchens." Casimiro gestured to a small table near the doors. Sure enough, there was the source of the scent, still warm, not too dry and not too moist. Sparron had never brought him bread, not that it had ever stopped Searle from wanting to stay. "I know it's not much. I keep things simple around here because it's just me, but maybe when my sister gets here--"

"No, it's perfect." Almost. Searle pulled up his braises and sat himself down. Up close, the bread looked every bit as tasty as it smelled. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Casimiro beamed as he pulled up a chair for himself and Searle struggled not to feel like an ingrate. Sex, a good long sleep, waking up to a smiling face, a fresh breakfast... Casimiro had delivered, that couldn't be denied. But for all he could appreciate the effort, he had voids that would not be filled. "I brought up an apple too. They're quite sweet this year."

And that's sweet of you, he wanted to say--but he didn't want to get the poor boy's hopes up. "This area has the best orchards."

Was that really the best he could have gotten away with? God, what was wrong with him? Here he was, having a nice post-coital breakfast with a generous, handsome man whose only great flaw was that he wasn't Sparron. Or no--that wasn't even a great flaw, not being Sparron. And yet, he couldn't get past it. He didn't need breakfast or smiles or even a place to stay the night, not when he'd had Sparron. And he would have gladly gone without had he been with Sparron. But Casimiro, for all he was good-hearted and strong and almost too perfect to believe...

Casimiro wasn't Sparron. There was only one Sparron. There would only ever be one Sparron, and that Sparron didn't want him any more. No quality or quantity of Casimiro could change that.

"Are you all right?"

A tender hand rested on top of his, fingertips stroking the side. It was a place he'd always wished that Sparron would touch, but Sparron hadn't dared. He'd thought it would be intimate, everlasting, but it wasn't. It was just somebody touching his hand.

But how could he say that to the sweetest person he could never love? "Sorry. Just... got lost in thought."

Casimiro smiled. Searle grimaced in response and hoped his deception would go unnoticed.

"That's all right. It happens to me too."

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