by R. Cooper
“Looks like a well-fed cat, he does,” Mil observed, after a tired groan and the sound of a few joints popping. “Smug as can be.”
Mattin shuffled back against him without unsealing his mouth to reply.
Mil made a startled, then contented sound, before exhaling into the mess that had once been Mattin’s braid.
“Let him be smug,” Arden remarked quietly. “He has us, and I do not want to burden him.” He was close, but he did not touch, so Mattin snaked a hand from beneath the blankets they had piled over him until he found hot skin—Arden’s wrist. Mattin pulled it to him. Even the youngest of a youngest Arlylian could be possessive. Mattin could claim, too.
Arden let his hand be taken, sweeping his thumb under Mattin’s chin until Mattin drifted deeper toward sleep. “But I would wear the crown of his choosing.”
Mil snorted sleepily. “Cock-led indeed,” he mumbled, before chuffing a laugh.
“Sleep,” Mattin unstuck his lips enough to order, and complain, and they both went silent.
They slept.
Mattin was not much more awake, hours later, after he finished removing the last of his rather pathetic stubble from his face while the water ran into his bathing tub to be heated. He should have eaten more of the very late breakfast—in truth, more of a midday meal—that Mil and Arden had pushed on him. They were probably used to eating despite nerves or fear or a lack of appetite. Mattin was not, but had accepted the fruit offered him with something approaching shyness. The tea had been more welcome, although they had made him drink two cups with both milk and honey in them, since he would not eat.
Arden and Mil had washed and dressed efficiently, taking their time with their armor—of which there was more, this day, although Mattin had focused on his tea rather than watch them put it on. Arden was armed again. Mattin did not blame him, although he was not certain if the sword was worn for potential defense, or to remind others that Arden was willing to use it.
Mattin left his hair piled on top of his head, held messily with simple wooden pins, as he shed his dirty, wrinkled clothes at last to climb into the bath. He stopped the water before the tub was filled or had fully heated; there would be no lingering. Still, the warmed water sent parts of him stinging. He bit his lip and sank down as much as he could, keeping his head up to listen to the sounds from the other room.
His quarters did not have a closed door between the bedroom and the bathing room, so the conversation between Mil and Arden was clear. What they were doing in there was not.
When Mattin had insisted that he would not spend his day in their clothes, which were far too large for him in addition to being not to his taste, and had also spoken longingly of a bath, they had both decided without any discussion that they would escort him here. With a great deal of guards as well, naturally.
The palace had been quiet, with few of the staff to be seen going about their work, and guards everywhere, all of them exhausted, furious, grieving.
There had not been many deaths. That information had been relayed to Mattin in an attempt at comfort. He supposed it might comfort him, someday. Most of the noble houses had likely either not known of the plan or chosen to act with reason if they had—although Mattin thought some warning would have been nice. One of Mattin’s guards yet lived. He had asked to visit her if she wished to see him, when she was well enough. As for everything else, there was, as always, work to be done. Investigations and questions to be asked. Security changes, Mattin had no doubt. There might yet be more deaths to come. But first, there were things to be seen to.
As for Mattin, his original task remained: to help ensure a more lasting peace and stability by convincing any restless noble houses to stifle their complaints and accept their king. It occurred to him as he reached for soap that no one had asked him to do this. Nonetheless, the task was his. The other two had many skills, and Jola had eyes-and-ears others did not. But Mattin cared for popular tastes, and knew the ways of the beat-of-fours, and had access to their country’s history. He also had the king and his husband in his bedroom at that moment. Not many could, or should, say that.
Mattin would fret over it some other moment when he was not nearly so sore or weary or wondering what in the name of the fae the two former outguards were doing among his things.
After hearing reports from several of the palace guards, Arden had claimed that most of the palace residents were appalled that anyone should have threatened a Record Keeper, noble or not. If Mattin was going to leave his room today, which the other two had not suggested but Mattin worried over, then it would help for him to be seen looking well.
He soaped himself again, stomach churning, only to stop at the sound of a small thud followed by furious whispering.
He had wondered also why neither of them would step foot in the bathing room with him there despite what they had done to him only hours earlier. It would not have been proper, but neither of them were particularly bothered by that.
But Mattin was, and that was why they did not.
He sank a bit further down to conceal his silly smile beneath the water.
“How is this room so small?” Mil complained. He was a large figure, larger still with clothes and armor and cloak on. He must have knocked something over.
“It does not help that nearly every spare surface is clothes or books.” Arden clucked his tongue. “Or bottles of… is this perfume or hair oil?”
“Not even a proper jeweler’s box,” Mil noted.
“Where would he put it?” Arden then asked, before pausing, evidently to sniff something. “That is a much more personal oil. Fine stuff, too, from the scent of it. He respects quality.”
Mattin scrubbed his hot cheeks and then stood up, letting the water cascade back into the tub. “It is the room of a Keeper,” he told them both. Had he wanted, he could have claimed a room among some of the other nobles staying within the palace wall. “It has space enough.”
“…Don’t think other Keepers require quite so much room for their jewelry,” Mil remarked in a loud whisper, before adding, “Although he’s no regular Keeper.”
“He doesn’t understand that yet,” Arden contributed.
Mattin reached for a towel and nearly fell as he slipped across the floor. He hurriedly dried himself and softened his skin with a randomly chosen lotion before pulling on a robe. He stopped in the doorway, his robe held closed in one hand.
Mil and Arden were investigating the small table where Mattin had laid out his combs and clasps and oils, along with some of his jewelry. Several of his prettier necklaces spilled out of a bowl where Mattin had carelessly left them.
Mil and Arden both straightened when they noticed him. Arden’s brows rose slightly. Mil parted his lips, then shut them tight.
Whatever Mattin had meant to accuse them of was quite lost because they stared at him as though they had forgotten that jewelry ever existed.
“What?” Mattin asked, not certain he would get an answer.
They looked at each other. Arden sighed, then Mil turned to Mattin. “What is that thing?”
Mattin followed their gazes downward, then looked back up. “A robe?” He let it be a question.
“It’s sheer.” Mil was not complaining, exactly. “What good is it?”
Outguards did not often have regular access to hot baths, or any baths at all, but they should still recognize a personal robe. “It’s for when you are out of the bath, but have not yet decided what to wear.”
“That’s when you’re naked.” Mil did not seem as amused as Mattin might have expected.
Mattin made an affronted face, which finally made them both smile.
“Ah, that would not be proper enough for you, I suppose?” Arden guessed. “But that tease of a robe is,” he said that to Mil.
Mattin dropped his head to consider his robe again, damp and sticking to him in places, easy to see through even with firelight and one window shutter only partially cracked. A lock of hair tumbled into his face. He absently tucked
it back around one of the wooden pins.
“I told you I would help you wash your hair,” Arden then added, making Mattin discard the discussion of the robe altogether.
“We’ve no time today,” he declared, so fussily that he embarrassed himself. He paused, then tugged at the bottom of his robe before letting go of the sides to let them fall where they may. The soft hiss from Mil was pleasing and worth how vaguely flustered Mattin felt to be nearly naked before them both while they were fully dressed and armored.
“Do you smell of jasmine?” Mil demanded in rough-voiced surprise. “Is that your soap I’ve been smelling all this time? I thought it was perfume, but you use flowered soap? Fuck me.”
Mattin thought to threaten to wash Mil with that same soap, then reflected dizzily that Mil would likely not consider that a threat. He shook his head to at least momentarily banish the thought and studied them both suspiciously. They enjoyed teasing him, but they also did it to distract him. “What are you two doing poking around in here?”
“Getting ideas,” Mil admitted freely, dragging his gaze up to Mattin’s face. “Have more gifts to give, don’t we?”
It held Mattin still. “Because you plan to continue to woo me?” he asked finally.
Arden had a linked collar of green enameled glass in his hand but carefully returned it to the table before he spoke. “Unless you decided to marry us while you were in that bath.” He met Mattin’s stare, unbearably calm as he revealed that while he might guess Mattin’s thoughts, he certainly did not know them. “But we will likely keep on even if you did. The spectacle matters. You wrote that, in a note to Cael for us.”
“‘The people need it,’ Cael said,” Mil added. “And I think maybe Sass needs it too. Fuck, I think I need it. It’s a pretty thing, and not as useless as I might have once thought.”
Arden turned to him, startled, and then flashed a regretful smile. “Ah, Mil, my love, I should have wooed you right.”
Mil crossed his arms and seemed insulted. “Who says you didn’t?”
Arden, apparently. “Whatever silly things I did—”
“Who says they were silly?” Mil demanded, head up in full offense.
Arden made his voice soft. “I didn’t know how to care for you then. I made mistakes. I did not do one solitary thing that our Mattin would consider proper.”
That stopped Mil for a moment—but only a moment. He did, however, uncross his arms. “And I didn’t know I needed it. But we figured it out in the end. I’m yours and I’ve never regretted it.”
Mattin highly doubted that Arden had forced anything on Mil, and that was truly all that propriety required. Everything else was decoration over that simple fact. Courtships, public or no, were meant to be about earning trust and respect and then devotion.
“If you hadn’t run with me to that harsh life, you might have had more of a taste of the things you want,” Arden insisted. He glanced down to Mattin’s combs and bottles and jewelry, to the collar of green glass. “Or learned yourself sooner. You cannot deny that.”
“I can woo him.” Mattin surprised himself with the quiet offer. He reached nervously for his hair, but it was still piled atop his head. Arden and Mil turned sharply toward him as one. Mattin wet his lips. “Properly. As it is done in the palace, or was, since my manners are a bit old-fashioned.”
Once the words were out, and the weight of them hit him, his legs weakened. He stumbled to his bed to sit down. He had never made an offer close to that of marriage before. “Oh,” he murmured.
Arden’s smile was wide and bright. “I will help you, if you need it.”
Mattin did not need help, he decided, although he probably did. He knew rules and customs they didn’t, after all. He just didn’t know love. Not yet. “And you as well,” he went on, to Arden.
It was fitting.
Arden nodded in acceptance. His gaze was more smug than surprised.
Mil’s mouth hung open for several moments before he attempted a scowl. “So we’re to continue courting him, then?” he asked of Arden, apparently choosing to not to address the rest of the wooing that was to happen.
Mattin had been left open and painted with Arden’s seed when he had brazenly spread his legs to encourage Mil to mount him. It was strange to have that memory clear and sharp and new, and yet realize that they were still uncertain of him.
He was uncertain of him, but he, foolishly, expected them to know better. Sharing a bed did not mean marriage, but Mattin had acted with them as he never had with others. Love, he supposed, did that.
Of course, love had not made him feel like an Earl of old, taking what was his. But they loved him for that, and Mattin could not think of it now without a pang of sharp satisfaction.
Arden looked from Mil to Mattin. “Still the surprise? At the start of this, when I thought it was what you wanted, we discussed all the logical reasons to choose you. And now you know the rest of our reasons. Do not misunderstand, or allow this information to slide past your many shields—”
“I wear no armor,” Mattin interrupted, close to breathless.
Arden’s gaze dipped over him. He quirked his lips, although he did not otherwise acknowledge Mattin’s protest. “The hesitations we had before we began this had nothing to do with what we feel for you. Eventually, we would have overcome them to approach you.”
“Then The Tyrabalith had to stick his nose in,” Mil grumbled. “Much that it matters now.”
“But the original question remains.” Arden lost his smile. “We would like to marry you, Mattin Arlylian. To woo you for all to see and to marry you.”
Mil regained his smile, small though it was. “Very much.”
It was not fair that even while exhausted and nearly sleepless, they managed to unravel Mattin so thoroughly with a handful of words and that use of his name. Arden wielded history and customs well. Mattin distantly wondered when Arden had realized that Mattin was undone by them, and if it was at the same time that Mil had chosen to disregard them to spark a reaction in him.
It was something else that no longer mattered.
Arden still did not smile. “But there is risk. Last night proved that, and has only reduced it for now.”
Mattin realized he had pressed his lips together firmly and made himself speak. “There was risk before and you still did it, giving me things so everyone would know.”
“Most everyone already did know, by then.” Mil announced that cautiously, as if he wasn’t sure what Mattin might do. “They only had to think about where our, well, his affections would go, and they all reached the same conclusion. But you chose to wear them.”
Mattin opened his mouth but had no defense. “Yes.” He had worried over it for reasons he had not dwelt on, but he had worn them.
“That was a risk, even when we mostly only thought of showing you off.” Arden’s use of mostly made Mattin pause as much as the idea of being displayed to others with pride, but he did not get a chance to ask. “There was a possibility it would involve some danger as it would not have in another time. A beat-of-four chosen for an alliance with me, attacked or otherwise harmed, would have created tensions. But you were more than an alliance and others saw it quickly. At the beginning, we assumed you’d thought of this, and it was another reason you did not put yourself on that list.”
Stunned, Mattin shook his head.
“No matter what gifts you have given us today, we will accept your decision if you do not choose us.” Arden was solemn and serious. “For other reasons, or if it’s too dangerous. But our feelings for you would still be known. You would still be a target. We would have to ask you to take care. Please. Please take care.”
“We can hire more guards. Figure something out.” Mil worked his jaw. “I’ll watch him myself.”
Without turning from Mattin, Arden reached out to caress Mil’s cheek. “You have to sleep too, my love.”
Mattin considered snapping at them for not mentioning that last night, or this morning. But he should have cons
idered it, would have, if he had believed that they loved him, or had admitted his own feelings to himself. They had warned him and given him guards. He had chosen not to listen. That they still had faith in him was remarkable.
He took a deep breath. “Today,” he said, words spilling from him out of order. “We need to get through today. I am… I will go with you as you attend to… as you see to the security of the palace and the capital. At least for part of the day,” he added quickly. Some things he did not want or need to see. “If people were worried for me, or if they doubt your ability to protect your… your potential chosen, then they should see me.” Spectacle mattered, even now.
He took another steadying breath. He was a Master Keeper. He had taken the king and his husband to bed, and was still sore and tired enough to prove it. He was an Arlylian.
Mattin raised his head high despite his trembling limbs. “Also, I have only known you loved me for a few hours. I’d like to have you near.”
“Fuck me,” Mil said faintly. “He always surprises me.”
Mattin stood up and crossed the small room toward his table of combs and his cabinets of clothing. “Now, I need to get dressed.”
Normally, he would have fretted for at least an hour over what to wear on an important day. Arden stopped him by holding up a necklace. He had last held that necklace when he had been helping Mattin remove it.
“I’m not sure that is appropriate for today,” Mattin said, instead of remarking that he ought to be dressed before he was put in jewelry.
“You might like something to cover…” Arden raised his hand to brush his fingertips over a tender spot on the side of Mattin’s neck. Mattin met his eyes. “Permit me?” Arden lifted the length of fine silver but first leaned in to press a kiss to what was sure to be a reddening mark. With Mattin staring at him, Arden gently wound the necklace about his throat several times before linking it and letting the end of the chain fall over Mattin’s spine.
