by J B Black
Groaning, Taron hung his head. Why did Oliver make him rethink everything? As much as he appreciated the new perspective, he loathed the way it unbalanced him again and again. Though he loved Marguerite, he never yearned for her the way he ached for Oliver, yet the friendship which seemed to grow between them had so much less potential to be anything more than the relationship he built with Marguerite.
Worse still, he had dreams. While in Faerie, he enjoyed restful blank slumber, but every night his mind churned with ideas, desperate to process everything that happened with Oliver and with the mortals he met. In a few days, the other man managed to completely turn his life upside down. Last night, Taron dreamed of the Treaty Celebration.
Eight years ago, he attended in his father’s stead with Marguerite at his side. His parents intended it to be a gift. They believed — just as he had — that Marguerite and he would end up being mates, and it had been such a magical night. They danced and celebrated amongst those strange magic users, and while Taron found them fascinating, Marguerite found the mortals exhausting, preferring the company of fae, so he brought her outside into the garden and used his magic to replicate the feel of Faerie around her. Starlight twinkled overhead, and he wove flowers into her long pale hair. At that moment, he believed they would share their first kiss that night.
Then someone stumbled upon them. The young warlock stood dressed in a suit fitted to his small frame, and though Taron couldn’t remember the exact hue of his eyes or the set of his features, in the dream, he saw a younger Oliver in the teen’s face. When Marguerite saw him, she spun to hide behind Taron, ashamed that they had been caught privately dancing, but it hadn’t been her who Taron yearned to protect. The young man — barely more than a boy — seemed so distressed. Accustomed to fighting his impulses, Taron stayed with Marguerite, but his instincts urged him to whisk the boy away to somewhere safe. Somewhere he could protect him.
Then the young man vanished after a soft cry of shock, and Marguerite insisted they leave, proclaiming magic users strange and mad. With every footstep, the young warlock had faded from his mind, so why did Taron’s mind remember him now? Had that been the moment he should have realized she was not his? Had that young warlock been Oliver? If he had chased after him, would they have found a way to work around Oliver’s reactiveness to magic? Or would it have only sent Oliver running from his family all the sooner? Had he even run? Taron could only guess from what he could piece together, and the warlock gave him so little to work with.
Pushing himself to his feet, Taron finished preparing his breakfast, eating it as he considered how he wanted to spend his extra time alone today, but his mind kept coming back around to Oliver. He wanted to be with him. To spend time with him. To see him in his element. Perhaps at band practice he would sing with his full volume. The man had such a beautiful voice, but he hummed or whistled more than sang, but the few soft whispering songs which the other used to focus his magic wormed their way into his soul. Taron never would forget them, so after carrying Mrs. Tillman’s groceries to her place and spending time learning how to cook with Mrs. Asrat, he rushed down the street with the directions Mrs. Tillman gave him in mind. When he’d asked, she had given him a strange look and shook her head as she called Oliver too aloof for his own good.
Despite her directions, he might have missed the place if he didn’t catch sight of Oliver turning up the collar of his coat and jogging across the street. Taron wanted to call out. He stepped forward, opening his mouth to do so, but his voice wouldn’t come. It wouldn’t hurt, right? If Oliver didn’t know he was there, then he wouldn’t tell Taron to go back to the flat or put on a fake face and invite him along when he didn’t want to. Unease squirmed in his chest, but the fae ignored it.
The entire way to the warehouse where Oliver’s band practiced, a sickening uncertainty tripped Taron up over and over again. He had no right to be there. No reason or sense to stalk the warlock. This was a part of Oliver’s life to which he hadn’t invited the fae, and no matter whether they were guest and host or roommates, Oliver didn’t owe this to him. Even knowing this, Taron found the temptation irresistible. He wanted to know more about Oliver. To see him when he was most in his element. Hear that voice sing out loud and clear, so he followed into the building, listening at the door and lamenting that he couldn’t see inside without risking Oliver’s allergy. Though fae ears were better than mortals, the room had obviously been constructed with musicians in mind. He could hear the singing — someone who obviously wasn’t Oliver — but the song came across so faintly.
Pacing back and forth, Taron hated himself for failing to resist, but he kept his magic as minimal as possible, enchanting his glamored eyes rather than the wall. It wouldn’t be much worse to Oliver than his original glamor, and the warlock seemed able to mainly ignore it as long as they weren’t right next to each other when the spell dropped.
And how could Taron regret his actions when the sight Oliver playing the drums stole his breath away. He was gorgeous. With his brown hair flowing loose about him, the warlock moved with passion. His hands flew, guiding the drumsticks over the instrument. He was the heartbeat. Everything in the song relied upon him, and he held them together so well. The other men were talented at their craft, but the singer with his bleached blond hair couldn’t compare to the emotion and precision in the warlock’s voice. When Oliver joined to harmonize, his voice naturally showed the better, yet not once during the practice did he sing on his own.
Oliver played brilliantly. The muscles in his arms flexed beneath his black fitted sweater, and every time his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, Taron cursed that anyone else had ever seen the man play. London Frost had fans. Mrs. Tillman spoke of men and women trailing after Oliver. Beautiful as the man was, he was bound to attract attention, but seeing him play the drums roused the feral beast which grew more and more restless with each day Taron spent beside Oliver but not with him.
Hours came and went. Lyrics spiraled around Taron’s head, and even as he disliked hearing another sing when he knew the perfection of Oliver’s voice, the fae found himself energized by the band’s performance. They were masterful. Incredible and destined for fame. To hide Oliver away in jealousy would be to deny the world the revelation of London Frost, and long after the sunset, they played on repeating songs now and then. The one with dark hair who played the bass — Ben if Taron remembered his name correctly — wrote the lyrics, working with the other two on the melodies, and they wove stories which burrowed their way into Taron’s heart.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” the bleached blond singer complained when they finally called it a night. “But at least we finished the album, right?”
Ben frowned, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure I’m good with the bridge in Lay Me Low.”
“What are you talking about? It’s great!” the singer exclaimed. “You’re totally overthinking it!”
“Calvin,” Oliver called from the drums. “We can’t afford to make a mistake on this album, so if he wants to overthink it now, so we aren’t overthinking it in the studio, that’ll save us money.”
Calvin groaned and set his guitar in its case. “If we got the equipment, we could just record it here. As many do-overs as we want.”
“And then we’d have to pay for an editor separately rather than the mixing artist being included in the equipment costs,” Ben pointed out. “Sound mixing isn’t easy.”
Pulling on his jacket, Oliver nodded. “The room’s also not perfectly soundproof. Depending on the day, we’d get background noise from the tap dancers down the hall or the karate studio opposite.”
With a huff, the singer slung his guitar on his back. “Okay, you guys are right. Just don’t make yourself sick with it, okay?”
“Yeah — yeah, I got it, so do you need a ride home?” Ben asked, glancing between the other two.
Oliver shook his head, waving them off. “I could use the walk.”
“I’m up for a ride if you’r
e willing to stop for burgers,” Calvin replied. “I’m starving!”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Fastfood only.”
“Anything. I’m eating my organs.” His stomach growled as if to reinforce his words. “Hear that? My stomach’s threatening my liver next.”
Ben shook his head, laughing as the two headed for the door. Leaping back, Taron ducked further down the hall, keeping close to the wall as he dropped the glamor on his eyes and hoped that Oliver wouldn’t notice. Neither Ben or Calvin acknowledged him, so he sagged in relief.
“You know, this is more than a bit not good,” Oliver called from inside the room, and Taron froze, hoping the words weren’t meant for him. “Come on, Taron.” Stomach sinking, the fae trudged into the room, but Oliver only smiled. “Give me a second to lock up.”
Humming the chorus of one of the songs from earlier, Oliver spread his magic. It came in waves. Bit by bit, the warding hidden about the room activating, and when the warlock bolted the door locked, it was like the room vanished from sight.
“That’s incredible,” the fae whispered in awe.
Oliver ducked his head, blushing. “I’m shit at most magic, but with a tune, I can do a decent ward.”
“Decent? Oliver, what you just did is amazing. I’ve seen some of the most complicated spellwork which guards vaults in Faerie, and your warding surpassed spells which have taken several fae days to construct,” Taron insisted, stepping up to set his hands upon the other’s shoulders, but those multicolored eyes lifted to meet his gold, and the fae froze. “I hope you don’t mind. I meant to meet you at work, but I saw you, and — and I just couldn’t resist. You’re so brilliant, Oliver. I’ve never heard music like that before.”
“Not exactly court-worthy, is it?” the warlock joked, and the self-deprivation pushed Taron to close the distance.
He reached out, grabbing Oliver’s arm and pulling the other man close. “I have a good ear, and I know talent when I hear it. You three are teetering on the edge of fame. It is an honor to be amongst the early fans of London Frost.”
“Thanks.” Oliver ducked his head, and the pink of his cheeks left Taron’s mouth dry.
“Why aren’t you the lead singer?” he found himself asking.
The warlock’s brows furrowed. “What?”
“I’ve heard you sing before. Back at your flat — I heard you sing the spell the first night, and you sometimes sing in the shower…” Taron trailed off, feeling his own pale cheeks heat as he realized how much he had given away. “I love your voice, and while Calvin is talented, you’re significantly better.”
Oliver shook his head. “But I’d be a shit front man. Calvin’s voice works better for Ben’s songs anyway.”
The pair walked out of the building, and in the cold night air, the energy moved strangely around them. A distance existed between them. One which Taron longed to break, but so much happened all at once. His heart still ached with confusion. Taron longed to know why fate connected his younger brother and Marguerite. Ached to find out how he and Oliver were bound. Did friendship tie them in the strings? Or did the potential exist for more?
Afraid to shatter the fragile beginnings of what could be something incredible, Taron found himself speaking without a clear idea where his words would go. “Do you remember what you said to me this morning?”
“This morning? Something about toast?”
“Your brother. You mentioned he was the perfect warlock,” Taron reminded Oliver, and the joy which had been on his face after practice faded as he seemed to deflate upon himself. The look was like a fist about the fae’s heart. “I was that, you see, so I couldn’t help but think. I’m the elder — heir to my father’s titles and estate — and while my brother struggled with law and decorum and even magic, I never did. Of course, I suspect some of it came from disinterest.”
Oliver sighed, shaking his head. “Did you ever talk to your brother about it?”
“No, I didn’t. Which is why your words left me wondering if I mistook things from the beginning,” Taron admitted. “My brother never acted courtly. He hated our lessons. Every single day, he ran and hid in the library. Besides the magic regarding string work, he never seemed interested in anything aside from stories. Legends and myths, the foundations for a poet, which was fine. I encouraged him where I could, but he never seemed to want that.”
Oliver hummed softly, but this time his magic didn’t follow. “Maybe he thought you were mocking him.”
“If so, that wasn’t my intention. I love Levon. He’s curt and sour, but he’s got a mind for nuances. His impatience irritated much of the court, and he often found himself at odds with our peers, so I knew I would be lord one day,” Taron explained. His golden eyes darted to the warlock, trying to measure his reaction, but those multicolored eyes didn’t judge him. Oliver simply listened, and the gentle attention weighed strangely upon the fae’s shoulders. “When Marguerite became a ward of our estate, she and I became fast friends. She was the eldest as well, and while her father had no land or titles, he was a kind and well-liked man. My father took Marguerite in to assist her in attaining a higher education. We grew up together, and I adored her.”
“Is this the Marguerite who was your brother’s mate?” Oliver tentatively asked.
Nodding, Taron bowed his head. “I never expected the lady I loved to be bond to my brother. She enjoys balls and enthusiastically learned every bit of courtly etiquette she could.” With a sigh, he confessed, “I do not understand how they can be destined for one another. My heart accepts she was not meant for me, and I have recorded — I believe — from that shock, but my mind cannot fathom the two of them together. Already, at their wedding, they bickered and cared so little for what the other desired. How can that be fated love?”
With a shrug, Oliver stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. His breath rose in wisps of white. “Maybe her courtliness was a facade.”
“Perhaps,” Taron considered.
However, likely hearing the doubt in the fae’s tone, Oliver continued, “First loves are complicated. People rarely show you all the sides of themselves, and you are too inexperienced to feel out the areas they may be hiding from you. Maybe the courtliness was an attempt to rise in the ranks. As good as her father might have been to those more powerful, maybe he pressured her to better the family name.”
Though Taron hated to consider that, he could not deny that Marguerite’s father had seemed both pleased and disappointed to learn that she was to marry Levon. At the time, Taron believed the confusion came in knowing that he adored her and hearing about how the newly married couple could not bear to be in the same room as each other. That had been all the explanation Taron needed. He never questioned that perhaps Marguerite’s father intended for her to marry the heir and not the younger son. In a way, like Levon, Taron attributed the result to fate, expecting everything and nothing at all upon the turn of a split second when the truth came out.
“I cannot help but wonder if there is much difference between first love and love at first sight,” Taron murmured with a frown.
Pausing on the sidewalk, Oliver stared up at the stars. They shine down upon his fair face as he mused, “One comes slow. The other might be fate, or it could just be infatuation.”
“Then I’m not sure she was either.”
Frowning, Oliver turned his gaze upon the fae. “What do you mean?”
“I’m half convinced I loved her because she was there to be loved. We were of similar dispositions, and I adored her, but it wasn’t sudden or slow. She enchanted me in a way. Beautiful and intelligent, she hung upon my every word, and it was easy to imagine a future with her,” Taron explained, chasing the threads of his thoughts. “If I loved her, I don’t think I would have been so distracted by that boy.”
Brows rising, the warlock smirked. “Oh, there was a boy?”
“I don’t remember much about him now, but Marguerite and I were dancing on our own with no one about. I kept believing she would kiss me and wonderi
ng if I should simply kiss her first, but then I saw him, and I forgot everything about her.” Taron studied Oliver’s face, looking for some sense of recognition. If the warlock before him was that same boy, it had to be destiny. Perhaps he had failed them both by not following the urge in his gut to chase after the young warlock.
Oliver patted the fae on the back instead. “If you didn’t love her, you wouldn’t have torn your way through the very laws of Faerie to get away.”
He said it as if the conclusion offered itself up so simply, but a wave of disappointment threatened to wash Taron low once more. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“You don’t have to have not loved her to get over her,” Oliver advised, and when the warmth of his hand retreated back to his pocket, Taron longed to chase it and entwine the fingers, but his hands remained by his side. “Let’s get home. We can probably still order in a pizza if you want.”
Though the fae had no idea what a pizza was, he nodded, letting his strides fall into line with the warlock’s. Dreams meant nothing. Whoever that young warlock had been, he made his choice. Fate or destiny would have expected it, so he hadn’t missed his chance. There was no such thing as missed chances. Not without magical intervention, and the only spell that evening had been the one which Taron himself cast.
If fate intended him and Oliver to be only friends, he would take every moment he could with the other man and cherish it. Friends spent their lives together too. None would dare chase the fae to Earth, and if his family realized what he had done, they would have to speak with the Queen herself to see him returned. She likely wouldn’t intervene. Perhaps the rest of his life would be spent on Earth. Though his brother had not wanted the lordship and would undoubtedly cause trouble in court, he had Marguerite to help him, and wasn’t that just a self-fulfilling prophecy? Levon needed Marguerite because he became a lord unintentionally when Taron left, but Taron wouldn’t have run away if Marguerite and Levon hadn’t been mates.
