In Which Searle Looks Past the Winter Morning

November 3, 1180

Searle's brain was a dragon about to hatch, his skull the increasingly fragile egg. He hadn't thought--God, it hurt to think!--he'd had that much, but the sharp throbbing said otherwise. The vague memory of Jadin dragging him home agreed.

His throat was parched, the harsh taste of lingering ale wreaking havoc on his tongue. He might have puked if he'd had enough moisture in him. How the hell did liquids manage to be so dry?

"There's a pitcher of water on the bedside table."

He wasted no time in going for it. It was only after that wave of pure refreshment splashed the back of his throat that he recognized the voice. "What are you doing here?"

Sure enough, there was Sparron, prodding at the first fire the hearth had seen since March. He didn't turn around. "Lettie asked me to talk to you."

"She had to ask?"

"I didn't know how bad it was until she filled me in on the ride here." At the poker's whim one log slid from the back of the other. Searle took another drink and set the pitcher on the floor, a little shaky as he made for the foot of the bed, one tentative step at a time. "I don't really leave home much these days. I hadn't really heard.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, you know. Or I did, but not like this. I just wanted you to move on with your life."

"Why didn't you just say that instead?"

"Because you would have taken it the wrong way." A legion of sparks burst to life as two logs collided. Sparron sighed. "You would have found a way around it. I only did what I did because it had to be a clean break. I wanted you to be better off."

"But I'm not."

One last prod at the flames, then Sparron laid the poker to rest at the side of the fireplace and sat down on the couch. "Sit with me."

Hangover half-forgotten, Searle allowed himself one more sip of water before obeying. He slumped down on the empty cushion, legs resting over the arm and head in Sparron's lap, some unforgotten reflex of intimacy from years prior. His condition may have been to his advantage. Sparron had a habit of pushing him away for far less.

But, whether consideration for Searle's health or some precious moment of intimacy, Sparron didn't react, not even to recoil. He even propped up Searle's head with the side of his hand. Not sure if he'd ever get another chance, Searle reached up to run his fingers through the thick hair that haunted his memories, each snag and tangle a reassurance that he wasn't dreaming. "I don't understand."

"I don't expect you to."

"Because you think I'm stupid."

"No." He let his free hand rest on Searle's stomach. It was an indulgence, but Searle reached out and clung to it anyway. "Because we're very different people. We've never understood each other. That's not going to change."

"It could."

"No, it can't."

"But it has to." His grasp on Sparron's hand tightened. Against all knowledge of the finite things in life, he never wanted to let go. "You're the love of my life."

Sparron sniffed. "You haven't met every person on the planet, you know."

"I know, but I don't have to." Searle let his arm fall back to his side and took to studying Sparron's eyes. They were the same blue-gray he remembered, almost greenish when the light was right. They were pure ice, a cold and looming misery like a cloudy winter morning, but that was why he loved them. They made that hint of sunlight bursting through all the more precious. "We had fun together."

Sparron nodded. "I remember."

"Even if you were a paranoid ass." He didn't get a reply for that one, but that was fine. That wasn't his question. "Do you love me?"

Mindful of Searle's head, Sparron pried himself free and stepped back toward the hearth. Some scattered consciousness of his aching brain rushing back, Searle eased himself up, head spinning with the rush. "Sparron?"

"You need your rest." It hurt, but it wasn't surprising. He'd asked that question countless times, each one meriting yet another non-answer. "Go back to bed, get a good night's sleep, and apologize to Lettie and the children in the morning. And don't put them through this again."

For all Sparron refused to turn around, Searle nodded. He would stop with this. He owed it to Lettie, a thousand times over. And the kids deserved better. He could be that, he guessed. Or at least, he could try.

He returned the bed, colder and larger than he'd left it. As he sat on the edge, he reached for the pitcher and gulped down the remaining water, returning it to the table when he'd finished. He lied down and pulled up the covers, trying and failing to get comfortable. "Sparron?"

"Mmm?"

"Stay with me tonight?" At least that got him to turn around, even if the shock stung a little. "No sex, I promise. I just want you to hold me."

Sparron's statuesque stoicism hovered in Searle's mind around a dreaded and inevitable breaking point, most likely the act of his turning away and leaving with little more than a curt good night. He thought he might die of happiness when a warm body settled on the other side of the bed.

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