by J B Black
“Earth is perfect to get over broken hearts,” Oliver assured him.
But as Taron watched the man, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would only heal his heart to shatter it all over again.
Chapter Four
With Oliver off in a studio on the other side of London whenever he wasn’t at work, Taron spent more time with the lovely older women who lived in the apartment building. Mrs. Asrat taught him to cook, and Taron hadn’t burnt anything even when he made a homemade pizza from a recipe he picked up from a magazine. Every time Oliver ate what he made, Taron’s heart raced. He loved seeing the man enjoy his cooking — preening with pride to have provided. But the longer he stayed, the greater the sense of listlessness became.
In the dead of winter, Earth’s greenery stood dormant. The ground slumbered, waiting for spring, so when Mrs. Tillman decided her indoor plants needed to be repotted, he leapt at the chance to interact with nature of a sort once more. Carrying in the soil and the new pots the mortal woman bought, he set them down on the newspaper she set up in the kitchen, helping her carefully move the plants into their new containers.
“Darling, don’t take this the wrong way, but how long do you plan on being a house husband?” Mrs. Tillman asked as she settled the first of many repotted plants back in its original place about her living room.
Taron frowned, blinking as he considered the meaning of her words. “What is a house husband?”
“Oliver is working at the cafe, but his band is taking off, and if all goes well, you two won’t have to worry about money, but sweetpea, music is never a sure thing,” the old woman intoned.
“He’s going to be successful,” Taron retorted, enjoying the feel of soil beneath his fingernails. “Oliver is extremely talented, and London Frost is brilliant.”
Mrs. Tillman sighed, shaking her head. “And what are you doing with your life?”
“I’m learning to cook, and I’m helping you,” Taron offered. Even to his own ears, that seemed so much less than it felt when he said the words out loud. Shoulders sagging, he frowned down at the plant in his hands. “I need an occupation.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “I suspected you came from some money. Though the same about Oliver, to be honest, but he worked so hard, I wasn’t nearly as worried he’d get lost in the mess that comes with being alone in life.”
“He’s not alone,” Taron insisted, but as much as he wanted to say that Oliver had him, he let the words remain unsaid. The warlock had so many more people than just him, and he only knew Oliver for such a short time.
Not even a month, and Christmas loomed with importance he didn’t understand and which the warlock dismissed despite all the decorations on the streets. Mrs. Tillman had up a Christmas tree just like Mrs. Asrat, but Mrs. Asrat had strings of lights about her apartment from her party while Mrs. Tillman had little figurines and a wreath on her door. They said nothing to Oliver about Christmas, but the one time Taron tried to bring it up, the warlock said something about Yule and then tossed a children’s book at him about a gift-giving jolly old man dressed in red sneaking into a house. None of it made sense.
“No, he isn’t, but he’s all you have,” Mrs. Tillman replied calmly.
Dread pooled in Taron’s stomach. “He is.”
“Don’t fret, I’m not saying Oliver’s going anywhere. I’m simply suggesting you consider finding a job. You look so lonely whenever I see you.” She lifted a hand, stopping him from protesting. “You put on a good show, but you’re practically counting the seconds until that boy gets home, and he’s only going to get busier. I wouldn’t start looking until after the holidays, but you should think about it.”
Unless he decided to go back to Faerie, she was right. He needed to do his part to make a life on Earth, and that meant a job, but he had no experience. No idea what sort of jobs existed. He knew Mrs. Tillman’s eldest son worked as a teacher and her daughter’s husband managed a store. Neither suited him. Mrs. Asrat’s daughter’s husband worked at the airport. If only he could trick his way onto an airplane, he could use his magic to guide it through the sky. Her two sons worked in construction though. They said it was hard labor, but he could use his magic to help him as long as Oliver wasn’t around.
Determined to speak with Mrs. Asrat later that day, he focused on ensuring Mrs. Tillman’s plants were happy and healthy, allowing himself to once more enjoy the sylvan energy which he longed for in the dead of winter.
Chapter Five
Most people might have been happy to come home to a cooked meal waiting. To a clean apartment with their clothes washed and their bed made, but it had been over a year since Oliver lived with another person, and he couldn’t trust that Taron wouldn’t leave. If he came to rely on the dinners and the cleaning, the drummer would be floundering when the fae finally decided he wanted to go back to Faerie. Or worse — when some magic user with actual power and better connections showed the fae how much more he could have with someone else.
Just the thought made the man sick, so as he trudged up the stairs, he practiced the words in his mind. He had talked about it with Mrs. Tillman earlier that day. A job made sense. If Taron had a job, he would see how hard life could be on Earth, and he would make his decision to stay or go quicker. With a job, the fae could make friends and learn how to be self-sufficient. The heartbroken silver-haired fae tracked Oliver’s every move with his eyes when they were in the same room, and the weight of it inspired wants that would never amount to anything and more cold showers than the drummer cared to admit. He refused to be a rebound to some magnificent fae lady — and it would be so much easier to believe the other’s attention was merely friendly when Taron no longer centered his world about Oliver.
Before he could unlock the door, it opened and a beaming fae tugged him inside as he exclaimed, “I got a job!”
“A job?” Oliver repeated. His brows furrowed in confusion made all the worse as Taron manhandled him into the flat, taking off his jacket and commanding him to remove his boots before he pushed the drummer into a chair and set dinner before him. Some kind of chicken and rice with a variety of vegetables. “What job did you get?”
Smirking, the fae ran a hand through his hair and struck a pose. “A model.”
It was like someone pulled the rug out from under him. Oliver stared up in confusion. “A model?”
“Yes,” Taron affirmed, practically purring in delight. “I went to speak with Mrs. Asrat about her sons’ construction work, but she had her sister over, and her sister has a son who works as a fashion designer. They took pictures on their cell phones, and then he came over, and now, I’m going to be a model!”
Put together in that way, Oliver could see it happening with ease. Dany — Mrs. Asrat’s fashion designer nephew — worked for a larger designer, but he had a habit of trying to pick up men by complimenting them and suggesting they model for him. While Taron wasn’t his usual type, anyone who liked men would be mad not to see how gorgeous the fae was. He could easily fit on a billboard.
Biting his lip, Oliver ran his fingers along the edges of the table, resisting the urge to drum them. “Are you sure it’s a real job?”
Taron frowned. “Of course. We went to his workplace, and he introduced me to Natalia who manages their models. They have an entire group of them, but Dany wouldn’t let me sign an exclusive contract, saying that he thinks I’m going to ‘take off.’ Isn’t that fantastic?”
“Do you — do you have the contract?”
Jumping up, the fae grabbed a stack of papers and held them out. “I knew you’d want to read it over. That one is the long-term one. I did a single shoot contract today. All they did was dress me up and take pictures.”
With every word, Oliver’s stomach sank. The contract read like a real one, and though none of the words seemed sinister, he couldn’t help but doubt that Taron managed to get so lucky. For all his flirting, Dany had never actually presented anything substantial when he aimed his attentions at Oliver, so he had
nothing to go on. As long as the fae wore a glamor, no one would know what he was through the pictures. Even other magic users wouldn’t be able to see a glamor in photographs after they went through editing which would likely remove any specks of refracted light which might have given it away, and Taron’s glamor always looked so perfect that the drummer doubted there would be any specks to notice at all.
“This is a multi-year contract,” the brown-haired man murmured.
Taron nodded with a grin. “Three years with the option to renew and a non-exclusive clause.”
“We could have Sullivan look it over,” Oliver concluded, glancing at the clock.
It was late, so the other man likely wouldn’t be up, but there was a chance Calvin could get the contract to him after their studio session, which meant this would be all real and three-years promised come the day after.
What exactly would that mean? Would those three years mean Taron remained in his life for that length of time — perhaps even longer? Of course, the fae could break the contract. No one could bring a legal case against someone in another dimension. They had no chance of finding him if Taron decided to leave, and perhaps that was what left him so confident. He had nothing to lose.
Though he intended to encourage Taron to get a job, everything happened so fast. How was he supposed to prepare? As much as he didn’t celebrate the holidays, he had thought they would serve as a barrier between the life they had constructed together. But that was a joke, wasn’t it? It had been barely over two weeks. Nothing existed between them. A hospitality agreement became a roommate agreement, and even that had no formal standing in reality. Taron retained the power. As a guest first and then as fae, he had the power to stay or to go as he wanted. If he wanted to leave Oliver behind, he could. What could Oliver do? He had no way of contacting Faerie’s royalty to reinforce the treaties which Taron might break.
Hands cupped his face, and Oliver started, pulling back, but Taron didn’t let him. The pale fae crouched down, kneeling on the floor before him as his honeygold eyes bore into Oliver’s. His gaze struck to the core. Warmth radiated from his hands. He had no right to be so comforting when he so easily turned Oliver’s life upside down.
“If you don’t want me to sign it, I won’t,” Taron informed him.
Swallowing, Oliver tried to smile, but the fae’s face remained unchanged. “If Sullivan thinks it’s a solid contract, you should go for it. You’ve got the face for it.”
“I don’t care,” Taron said, easily dismissing what could be a big break for himself. “If you don’t want me to take it, I won’t. I only went to look for a job, so I could better enter mortal society, but you’re more important to me. I can find another job.” He paused, blinking as if a thought suddenly came over him before he added, “Or I could be a house husband.”
Cheeks heating in confusion, Oliver pulled back, and this time, Taron let him go. “I just want to make sure you don’t get taken advantage of. If this is what you want, I’m with you a hundred percent.”
“Good,” the fae said with a bright smile.
For a beat, he remained on the floor, kneeling before Oliver. His golden eyes threatened to melt the drummer. The easy affection within them would utterly undo him if he gave it the chance. That gaze promised more than Taron likely intended. They suggested Taron would welcome him with open arms if only he reached out to the fae. Offered a warm embrace. Perhaps even soft lips and firm hands. Oaths of more than Oliver could bear to receive, so he shifted back in his chair, gesturing at the food.
“This looks great!” Oliver avoided looking at Taron, but he could practically feel the pleasure radiating off the fae at his words. “We should eat before it gets cold.”
Chapter Six
Red looked amazing on Taron. With his pale skin and hair, the jewel tone brought out the sparkle in his gold eyes, and the sight of him lounging amongst wrapped presents in an ad on Piccadilly Circus was the last thing Oliver expected to see when he walked with Calvin to meet Ben at the studio. They had planned to pick up the CDs and finalized audio files for upload, but there the fae stood. People were even taking pictures.
“Wait a minute,” Calvin murmured. His eyes narrowed. “That looks like your mystery boyfriend.”
Oliver blanched. “My what?”
Rolling his eyes, the guitarist chuckled. “Did you really think we didn’t notice him waiting for you after practice? Or that Uncle Sully wouldn’t tell me about that modeling contract?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Oliver argued, but at his friend’s piercing look, he admitted, “He’s just crashing on my couch. Probably not for much longer.”
Elbowing the drummer, Calvin gave a cheeky wink. “I bet you didn’t see his magazine spread. My sister went cow eyed over it.”
“He’s been busy a lot lately. I didn’t think they’d be out so fast,” the brown-haired man murmured as he picked up his pace.
He wished could flee from the conversation, but both of them needed to help Ben load up the boxes of the CDs that they had ordered into Ben’s van. They also needed to give the last payment to the studio. There was no escaping Calvin for the rest of the afternoon.
If the other man dug, Oliver might have to admit that he had gone to pay rent only to find that Taron had already paid it. The fae made more in a few days of work than Taron did in two weeks. When he confronted the silver-haired male, the other merely shrugged.
“It was either that or groceries.”
Any attempt to argue that he could spend the money on himself or save up resulted in a somewhat sad smile.
“The things I want cannot be bought with money, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll buy some things for myself next time.” Which was how Taron bought a cell phone — for work and to keep in contact with Oliver — and how the majority of Oliver’s closet became reorganized to house the fashion which stores practically tripped over themselves to give the rising supermodel.
“Mary’s following him across his social media,” Calvin informed the drummer as they headed down the frosty street. He lifted his phone to show off Taron’s latest post. Apparently, most of them were of his cooking, which only made his fans swoon. “Oh, he included the recipe this time. Looks like it’s trending.”
Oliver shook his head. “Of course, it is.”
“We should have used him for the cover of our album. It would’ve gotten us some much needed attention,” the guitarist said as he shuffled to clean off his boots before heading inside the studio.
Ben stood surrounded by boxes. “There you idiots are! I’ve been here for fifteen minutes. We’re practically all packed.”
“You could have picked us up,” Calvin argued, grabbing a box.
“I was already in the area. You two should have gotten a car,” Ben argued before turning back to the man behind the counter. “Here’s the last installment. Thanks again for letting me use your wifi to upload the files.”
The man waved him off. “No problem. We like to make sure everything works correctly anyway, and this way, we know everything is set.”
“You uploaded everything already?” Oliver asked, picking up another of the boxes. “Will we still be on the right announcement schedule?”
Lifting the last of the boxes, Ben huffed, “I adjusted all that too. We should be good for our gigs next weekend.”
“Great! So now Oliver’s supermodel not-boyfriend can post about us,” Calvin cheered as they headed out to stick the boxes with the rest in Ben’s van.
It was incredible to see them all. Higher amounts meant they were cheaper, and it would take a while to sell them all, but the profit would be enough for them to tour, and with another investment of funds for more CDs to sell on the tour, they’d be on their way.
The joy of seeing them almost made up for the way Ben’s forehead wrinkled. “That pale guy? Bloody hell, Ollie, when did you bag a model?”
“Apparently, they’re just roommates,” Calvin piped up, climbing into the passenger’s seat. It was t
empting to just walk away and head back to his place on foot, but the two would only be all the more curious the next time he saw them.
“He’s crashing on my couch. Just leave it,” Oliver grumbled. When Calvin opened his mouth to comment, the brown-haired man added, “And we’re not asking him to post anything.”
Pulling out his cell phone, Calvin showed Taron’s social media profiles to Ben. “He’s got hundreds of thousands of followers. If he keeps on track, he’ll be in the millions by New Year’s.”
“Too bad tonight is Christmas Eve. If we had more time and gigs between now and Christmas, it would’ve been a good gift suggestion,” Ben lamented as he drove.
They thankfully let the topic drop after, but their words wound their way through Oliver’s brain, so when he unlocked the apartment door with a box of CDs in hand, he cringed at the flash from Taron’s phone. Apparently, spending his money on things he wanted included Christmas decorations. Never having celebrated the holiday, Oliver never knew how to react. The potted fir tree wasn’t too bad, but the strings of garland seemed so out of place. Almost as strange in his flat as the fae himself.
Taron smiled, looking up from the mince pies he had been photographing, likely for another post to his adoring fans which Calvin and Ben wanted to use to sell their music. While using whatever they could to sell their music made sense economically, Oliver struggled with the idea of asking the fae for any sort of favor. Guest laws and myths of fae trickery aside, Taron smoothly took over rent and the bulk of the bills. He cooked and cleaned. Despite having a job now, the fae acted as if nothing had ever changed, and if it weren’t for the pulse of heat from residual magic — because it had to be magic and not the painful unnamed feelings which churned in his chest every time he saw the silver-haired Adonis —, Oliver might have believed the fae really was that perfect.
