by J B Black
“One more night, and we’ll have the funds,” Calvin called out the window of Ben’s van as they drove off, leaving Oliver with his share of the fish and chips for Sullivan’s bar.
Steam rose from them as he headed back to his flat. When he reached his street, his eyes widened at the lights on in his windows, but he calmed the rapid beating of his heart, struggling to prepare for whatever he might find. Humming a quick tune, he unlocked the outer door and headed up the stairs.
What he didn’t expect was to find Taron out on the landing with a glamor firmly in place. A number of women gathered around him, including a couple that Oliver didn’t recognize. On the fae’s right, Mrs. Tillman blushed almost the same pink as her lipstick. Slapping Taron’s arm playfully, she fluffed her curly white hair as she giggled like a schoolgirl. She lived a floor below, and her neighbor, Mrs. Asrat, adjusted her scarves.
“Ignore these silly women,” Mrs. Asrat told him, wagging her finger. “I will teach you how to cook. When you learn how to make my ezogelin corba, that beautiful young man of yours will propose immediately!”
A dark-haired middle-aged woman beside Mrs. Asrat, who likely was one of her grown daughters, chuckled. “Hadn’t you wanted to introduce my Pembe to this Oliver?”
At the name of Mrs. Asrat’s granddaughter, Oliver debated retreating and staying the night in the studio. Pembe had no respect for personal space. She visited her grandmother regularly, and while she obviously cared for the older woman, her attitude toward Oliver left him continuously uncomfortable. From his long hair to his band, she critiqued everything. He never imagined Mrs. Asrat intended to set them up. The whole mess outside his door was the last thing he wanted to come home to, and whatever Taron told them, it would cause him trouble in the long run. But why were they even up? Most of these women woke ridiculously early, and he almost never saw them when he came back from a gig before unless Mrs. Asrat or Mrs. Tillman believed his latest one was in a dangerous area.
“Oh, I hope not. I’m rather jealous, and you both seem so sweet. I’d hate to have to run your daughter off,” Taron easily replied, and the women once more laughed.
Mrs. Tillman smiled slyly. “You’ll have your hands full chasing off all those fans of his band. We won’t be bringing anyone else home to meet him now that we know Oliver has such a wonderful young man waiting for him at home!”
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Asrat agreed.
With no way out but forward, Oliver stepped out into the hall. Taron’s eyes lit up, and he smiled brightly. “Oliver! You’re home!”
Unsure of what to say, the brown-haired man held up the bag. “I brought dinner?”
Easily dodging around the women, Taron threw his arms about Oliver, pulling him into a tight hug. “I met these wonderful ladies when I came back from the store.”
Dread pooled in Oliver’s stomach. He hadn’t left much money, and he couldn’t afford to continue to leave more if the fae kept spending so quickly. “Really?”
“I wanted to find a recipe for all the fruit from this morning, and you don’t have any cookbooks, so I went to go to the store to see if they sold any, but I ran into Mrs. Tillman on my way out, and she introduced me to Mrs. Asrat who has her daughter and daughter-in-law over, so they helped me figure out what I needed to get from the grocery store,” Taron explained with a bright smile.
Mrs. Asrat crossed over with her daughter and another woman following. “You have picked a fine man. He spent all day running errands to help prepare for my annual Christmas party.”
“He saved my father’s back by bringing in the Christmas tree that my silly brother bought,” Pembe’s mother added.
Shifting, Taron kept an arm wrapped around Oliver’s waist as he smoothly took the bag of fish and chips. “If you need any help, I’m most mornings since this one will be at work, but you’ll have to excuse us. I haven’t seen this beautiful man all day.”
The women giggled, saying their goodbyes as they headed off, and Taron led Oliver into his apartment. Christmas cookies covered the counter. The entire apartment smelled like cinnamon and sugar, and the heavy air of magic which had still remained when he left in the morning had entirely cleared.
Taron set the fish on the counter, heading over to grab plates and silverware. “I tried to tell them that we wouldn’t be able to eat them all, but Mrs. Asrat insisted I take at least four dozen cookies. There’s a bit of everything. I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”
“I’m not much for sweets,” Oliver lied, and when Taron stilled, tilting his head and scrutinizing the drummer, he flushed. “I work at a cafe. Day old cookies and bread are my life.”
Humming softly, the fae set the plates down on the table and took out the fish. “Then I’ll have to take Mrs. Asrat up on her cooking lessons.”
“You don’t need —”
But the fae waved off his protests. “I’m not sure how to split these. Breaded fish...and fried potatoes?”
“Yeah, it’s just fish and chips. I’ll grab some of the lemons you conjured this morning, but Sullivan’s fish is good without it,” Oliver informed the fae, letting the subject drop for now. Fixing their plates, he sat across from the fae. “Sounds like you had a busy day.”
Taron nodded. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I gave you a key. Whenever you decide to leave, just drop it through the mail slot,” Oliver replied, picking at the fish on his plate. Glancing up, he studied the glamor. “You can drop that, you know.”
“Oh...yes, I suppose.”
Pushing himself out, Taron glanced around uncertainly before moving to the furthest corner of the living room. His glamor dropped, and the residual magic flowed out like a tidal wave, but Oliver held his ground, keeping his gaze lowered as he shielded himself as best he could with a slight hum of discomfort.
Worry bowed the fae’s brows. “Was that too much?”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll make sure I’m in the flat and have allowed the spell to dissipate before you come home next time,” Taron promised, returning to the table.
Warmth spread through Oliver’s body. In his pants, his cock twitched, but he pushed the sensations back, drinking water and biting into a lemon to distract himself. “If you’re going to be here a while, you’ll need to make contact with the local magical council.”
“Who would that be?”
Oliver shrugged. “No idea.”
The fae’s fork clanged against his plate. “How do you not know? You’re a warlock, aren’t you?”
“Not officially.”
“How?” Taron pushed, completely missing the tense tone in the other’s voice. “You have magic. You live alone. Aren’t you a master warlock?”
“Not officially,” Oliver repeated.
“Oh, then a journeyman?” Taron asked, but before Oliver could say anything, the fae shook his head. “But don’t they normally travel?”
Running a hand through his long locks, Oliver tucked the stands behind his ears. “My council standards I’m equivalent to a master; however, that’s officially in question last I spoke as my mastery required musical accompaniment which isn’t the normal practice for a warlock.”
Despite his hopes that the fae would drop the topic, Taron considered his words only a moment before questioning further, “Are both your parents the same magic type? It isn’t uncommon for mixed to —”
“My mother is a witch, and my father is a warlock. Same clear through with only an occasional double witch or double warlock pair as far back as fifteen hundred years ago, which is as far as the Duvals trace without mortal influence,” Oliver cut in. His grip on his fork tightened, turning his knuckles white as he glared down at the table.
Taron swallowed, leaning back in his chair. Curiosity still brewed inside, but he held back from pushing further, noting the tension in the man’s shoulders. The urge to lean over the table and kiss away the frown from Oliver’s face left him caught frozen. Everything inside him jerked him forward. His instinct
s — those he often ignored for the politeness of fae society — screamed to take control. They wanted Oliver fiercely. The stubborn determination he associated with his brother clawed against his civilized education. Like some magical beast, he almost scented the air, half-certain he could taste interest on the warlock’s side as well, but he stopped himself from tilting his head back like an animal.
“You left magic,” Taron realized, whispering the words as his heart sunk. “I — I have put you in an uncomfortable position.”
Oliver neither affirmed or denied his conclusion. The brown-haired man shrugged, glancing up with his multicolored eyes which pinned Taron in place with such wondrous ease. “My allergies to most magic made staying an impossibility, and with the questions my way of doing things raised, being on my own made sense.”
“But you still felt obligated to take me in.”
For a moment, the drummer considered admitting that the conclusion was somewhat right, but Taron’s face contorted, inspiring guilt in Oliver’s chest as he saw it written across the fae’s face, so he shook his head instead. “You were unconscious and on your own in a strange world. I wasn’t going to leave you on your own — fae or not, magic or not. If I didn’t want you here, I would have left you in the alleyway.”
“You aren’t very good at lying,” Taron wryly returned. His lips twisted into a small smile. “I’m not meant to be here, and I don’t particularly want to be forced to go back and confront what I left behind. Not yet. Not if you’ll still have me.”
“As long as you don’t expect me to stop living my life,” Oliver retorted, pointing to the calendar which held all his shifts, practices, and gigs.
The fae’s eyes lit up, and he smiled so brightly Oliver’s heart skipped a beat as heat radiated — likely due to the residual magic though he could no longer sense its influence. “I’ve already memorized the schedule for this month. I’ll be the best guest.”
“Honestly, I think we’re heading into non-hospitality territory. It might make more sense to just call you my roommate,” Oliver murmured as he took a bite.
With his eyes on his food, he did not see the soft warmth his words inspired in the fae’s eyes. Want coiled in Taron’s core. Resisting the urge to kiss Oliver took every ounce of restraint he possessed. As far as the women in the building were concerned, Oliver and Taron tiptoed about a courtship they called dating. When Taron had danced around terms, Mrs. Tillman suggested Oliver avoided labels out of a fear of abandonment, and they all said if he waited and showed himself to be patient and going nowhere, Oliver would feel comfortable giving the relationship between them a name. Of course, they didn’t know the particulars. Mortals couldn’t, but the ease with which Oliver accepted him again and again no matter how Taron messed up inspired a cruel hope in the fae’s heart.
“We’re roommates,” Taron whispered, biting his lip to hide his smile.
Roommates. Less formal than guest and host. All the laws faded, allowing them to have a relationship all their own, and the optimism the women insisted he ought to feel suddenly seemed all that much easier.
Chapter Three
“Curses!” Taron hissed, dropping the blackened bread into the sink.
Smoke billowed from the toaster, and he had opened the window, hoping it would stop the smell from spreading, but outside, snow gathered in a dusting, and the frigid air woke Oliver almost as quickly as the burnt scent which curled about his nose.
Dressed in only his boxers, the warlock raced out of his room. “Where’s the fire!?”
All that creamy skin on display had Taron’s heart racing. His mouth salivated. Brushing the back of his teeth, his tongue yearned to tease those dusky rosebuds on the other man’s chest before leaving the shadow of his teeth on that unblemished neck. Oliver’s brown hair fell smoothly about his shoulders, and it would be so simple to knot his fingers in the hair to drag the warlock into a kiss — to press the man into the couch where Taron had slept the night before. Those long legs might splay. Or perhaps Oliver would flush, turning his creamy skin pink as he pressed his lean thighs together. Either offered such different temptations.
In his sleeping pants, Taron hardened, and as his pale skin turned red, the fae thanked the gods that the kitchen counter blocked the other’s view of his obvious arousal. Even better, the man blushed, gasping as he glanced down at his own state of undress and ran back into his bedroom. When the door slammed, Taron groaned, folding over the counter.
His hand pressed against the hardening line of his cock, and despite himself, he rutted forward, imagining Oliver’s firm backside. What sort of nosies might slip from the warlock’s lips? Would he moan? A high-pitched begging whine in the back of his throat as he canted his slim hips back, luring the fae to sink into the slick heat of his body. Warlocks could conceive, couldn’t they?
Biting his lip, Taron swallowed back the moan that threatened to break free at the thought. Oliver stood slim and strong. Pregnancy would soften those hard angles of his body, rounding his muscular abs into such a gravid curve that no sane fae male could imagine it without aching to see it actualized. Warlocks were so terribly fertile if legend spoke true, and the beast within Taron swore that Oliver would be the same. That he would conceive so easily. That he should conceive Taron’s children and no one else’s. Claiming him — mating him — binding them together sounded so lovely.
Ducking his head down, the fae turned on the cold water and hissed as it ran down the back of his neck. Though the cold water sent shivers down his spine, it overpowered the heat building him at the sight, and standing up, he grabbed one of the kitchen towels to dry off the back of his head as Oliver came back in dressed in jeans and a black sweater with some white symbol on the front.
“Did you burn yourself?” he asked.
Taron shook his head. “Just the toast again.”
“You don’t have to make breakfast,” the warlock informed him as he fetched the toaster from the window.
Grabbing two more slices of bread, the fae took the toaster from Oliver. “You can eat at the cafe. If I weren’t here, you wouldn’t be making breakfast at home.”
“I rather make you breakfast than have you set off the fire alarm,” Oliver retorted. When Taron shifted the settings all the way down, the brown-haired man sighed. “How dark do you want your toast to be?”
“I can figure it out,” Taron insisted.
Rolling his eyes, the man reached out, ignoring Taron’s attempts to shove his hands away. “If you keep pushing it back down, you’ll just end up making things harder on yourself. This makes it golden brown. Higher will lead to some burnt edges. Lower will have less coloring, and if you go below this, you’re practically doing nothing to the bed, okay?”
With a sigh, Taron nodded. “Thank you.”
“It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to try so hard,” the man assured him. Grabbing the comb from the bathroom, Oliver ran it quickly through his hair before tying it up in a topknot. “I’ll be out until late, so you should eat dinner without me.”
“Until late? But you don’t have practice scheduled for today,” the fae argued, pointing toward the calendar on the fridge.
“My bandmates found a cheaper studio. Calvin texted me this morning. We’ll switch out our practice sessions for studio sessions starting next week, so we’ve got to finalize the last couple songs for the album,” Oliver explained. Patting the fae on the upper arm, the warlock offered him a small smile. “Seriously, take it easy. You don’t have to be perfect at everything right from the start.”
“I’ve never done much without magic before,” Taron muttered, glaring as the toast popped up perfectly golden brown.
Oliver shrugged as he grabbed his jacket. “I told you I mastered magic through music. My brother — he had his magic mastered almost since the moment he was born. He did everything perfectly — the perfect warlock, so I get how hard it can be to struggle.”
“I suppose.”
“Plus, didn’t Mrs. Asrat promise t
o teach you? You’ll be a mortal cooking master in no time,” Oliver assured him, and with a wave, he said, “See you tonight if you’re still up.”
And off he went. Out into the bright wide world with all its mortal delights. Sinking down onto the kitchen floor, Taron sighed, covering his face in his hands. He never failed. All his teachers adored him. Every lesson came easily, and everyone offered him only praise. Until Marguerite and Levon proved to be mates, everything Taron wanted came to perfect fruition, so while he struggled now, he could only wonder if Oliver would have left him behind the same way he left his family if they had met earlier. Would Oliver have run away?
“Does being the perfect brother breed resentment?” Taron murmured, wishing he could ask Oliver.
He knew so little about the warlock. Nothing suggested family in the flat. No pictures. No sign of anyone else at all, and while the lack of a lover’s presence grew more and more of a relief to the fae, the dearth of anything connecting Oliver to his family left Taron concerned. Had he run away from magic? Or from them? Did he have any siblings aside from this perfect brother? And did the resentment which teased its way through his words indicate how he thought of his brother? Did he hate him for being perfect? Would he have hated Taron for his natural magical abilities?
“Did Levon hate me?” the fae wondered.
He had never considered the possibility until the bonding. Even when his brother offered him only curt responses, he attributed that to his brother’s personality. He never acted differently with anyone else. No one inspired friendliness, but perhaps Levon felt isolated. Constantly compared to his brother, surely that had to hurt, and somehow Taron never imagined it to be a possibility. He adored Levon. When they were younger, he doted upon his brother, and until Marguerite came into the picture, he did his best to ensure his brother always had the chance to be included, but Levon rarely took him up on his invitations, and when Marguerite entered the picture, she seemed so disinterested in Levon. The same could be said in the reverse as well. Whenever Taron had tried to get them to spend time together, they argued. Levon or Marguerite always ended up storming off upset, and none of that sounded like something mates did to one another.
