Emyr's Smile (5 page)

Emyr still didn’t
smile, but some of the ingrained sadness faded slowly from his
face. It made him less compelling as an artistic subject, but
Heilyn had discovered within himself an insatiable urge to make
Emyr happy. He didn’t quite understand where it had come from,
unless it had grown from that original desire to see Emyr’s smile,
but every evening in Emyr’s kitchen and every time Emyr blushed or
made a dry insightful comment just made it burn brighter.

Heilyn didn’t get
kissed, either. There had definitely been times when he had
expected it, as Emyr had lingered right at his side a little too
long, or stared at Heilyn’s mouth as he blushed. The closest they
came was on a night when the storm came rolling in out of the west,
tearing across the sky with crunches of thunder and sending the
rain spitting down like broken glass. Father Cian brought Heilyn
back to the village early, offering him a seat in the pony trap so
that he didn’t have to slither across the common where it was
already awash with mud.

When he tried the door
of the trade office, it was already locked and bolted. He staggered
next door into the shop as the wind caught at him, trying to drag
him down towards the quay.

“Emyr will be home by
now, dear,” Dilys said, shaking her head. Behind her spectacles,
her gray eyes were misty and concerned. “He doesn’t care for
storms, poor boy. It was a night like this that
the Gwyfyn went down and young Aneirin died, poor
soul.”

Heilyn swallowed hard,
his heart clenching, and dashed back out into the storm. Father
Cian and his trap were gone, probably back to the shelter of the
shrine, so he simply ran along the coast road. Here, without the
shelter of trees or buildings, the wind kept buffeting him into the
hedge, tearing at his hair and clothes with cold claws. He had to
slow to a walk in the end, but he could feel the island stirring
under him, the wind weeping through the hollows in the rock and the
waves lashing up to swipe at the base of the isle, hungry to drag
it back below the water.

When he reached the
house, it was dark. The sky was so heavy he could barely feel his
way across the garden, and he could only see by the dim light of
the starflowers tumbling across the sky as the storm ripped them
off the boughs of the trees. The front door, when he reached it,
was locked and he could hear the bolts rattling and straining
against the force of the wind. Swearing, he put his hands flat
against the wall and fought his way round to the back of the house.
Emyr wouldn’t hear him shouting over the noise of the storm, but
the back garden was a little more sheltered.

Once he made it round
the end of the wall, the tearing of the wind wasn’t so bad, and he
sagged back against it with a sigh of relief. He could still feel
the air shaking, and the derwen copse at the bottom of the
garden was a blur of light as the wind twisted the branches, but he
wasn’t scared he would be blown right off the island anymore. Then
a late apple, almost as wide as his hand, slammed into the wall
beside his head, shaken from the fruit trees behind the wall. Time
to move on, and he could make a run for it now, because he knew
this bit of ground, even when he couldn’t see it clearly.

He hit the back door at
a run, and groaned in relief when it opened under his hand.
Dragging himself in, he slumped against it, catching his breath
before he called, “Emyr!”

After the storm, the
house felt unnaturally quiet. He could still hear the air raging
outside, but it seemed dim and muted now. The quiet was stifling.
“Emyr?”

There was nothing but
silence, and Heilyn began to wonder if Dilys had been wrong and
he’d just made a fool of himself. Surely any sane man would wait
this out in the inn? They didn’t get storms like this back home on
Rhaedr, tucked away in the central isles as it was. He’d heard that
storms in the islands so close to the Veil were bad, but he’d never
expected this. Someone who had lived here all his life, though,
probably wouldn’t be daft enough to go out in it.

Or maybe Emyr had tried
to get home and was lying hurt on the road somewhere, and Heilyn
had walked straight past him.

No, that was panic
speaking. Emyr had almost certainly found a bed for the night with
a friend in the village. As Heilyn had no intention of struggling
his way back down the coast road, he’d have to find somewhere to
bed down here (no, not in Emyr’s bed, tempting as it might be, and
he wasn’t going to snoop through Emyr’s belonging either, no,
definitely not). He needed some light, though, and had been here
enough to know where the lantern and its flint lived.

The first splash of
light revealed the state of the kitchen. The shutter was open, and
the wind had thrown the herbs off the windowsill to spill out of
their pots and across the floor. There was a great sweep of storm
debris, too, dry leaves dancing across the counter and clogging the
sink. Heilyn put the lamp down and headed across to drag the
shutters closed. He’d clean this mess up, and see if Emyr had some
bread left over, and then he’d go searching for some blankets.
Stretching over the sink, he grabbed the edge of the shutter.

“Leave it.”

Heilyn jumped. Swinging
round, he squinted across the room. Emyr was standing in the
doorway, his hands clenched on the frame. He looked like a ghost,
pale and tense.

“Aneirin didn’t have
any shutters between him and the storm.”

Heilyn swallowed,
transported for a moment. Riding on the ropes through the sky was
fun on a sunny day with a sweet breeze, when you could prop your
elbows onto the side of the ship and natter at the sailors on
board. In a storm like this…

All the same, the wind
was coming in the window now, and as his mam liked to say, there
was a time for sentiment and a time for common sense, and he knew
which this was. “I’m shutting the wind out before it ruins
everything in here.”

“Don’t,” Emyr said, but
it was so soft and hesitant that Heilyn chose to ignore it. He
pulled the shutters closed with a heave, slamming the bolt across
before the wind could wrench them out of his hand. When he turned
round, Emyr had gone, so he picked up the lantern and went looking.
He found him in the parlor, sitting on the end of the wooden settle
with his head in his hands. Heilyn put the lantern down on the
table and went to sit beside him.

“Don’t.”

Heilyn cupped the back
of Emyr’s head, rubbing a few strands of hair between his fingers,
because he had to give him some affection. Then he backed away, and
saw to the room. He’d been in here once or twice before and
disliked it intensely. It should have been cozy, with the apple
boughs and flowers tapping against its south-facing window, and a
clutter of bookcases and chairs, but it just felt sad and lonely.
It always felt a little bigger than it was, haunted by a hint of an
echo. Now it was cold, so much so that Heilyn tried to rub some
warmth into his arms. He was soaked through, and he was beginning
to feel it.

There was a cold draft
coming down the chimney, but even the worst gust wasn’t bad enough
to make it dangerous, so he got a fire started and nursed it until
it was going strongly and his face felt well-toasted.

Emyr hadn’t moved, and
Heilyn decided that he’d respected his grief enough. He headed over
to the settle, peeling off his dripping cloak and testing the cloth
of his shirt with a grimace. It felt clammy to the touch, so he
said, “I’d ask if I could borrow a shirt, except I’m not sure any
of yours would fit me. Are you going to be horribly offended if I
walk around without one?”

Emyr tipped his head
up. “What?”

“Well, I think I’ve
brought in enough rain to fill a bathtub,” Heilyn said, making his
tone light and bright. “I don’t really look good in rain. It’s not
my color, you know, and I don’t want to get pneumonia and sneeze
all over Father Cian’s murals, so I’m just going to strip off, if
you don’t mind.”

“You’re wet?”

He could manage a smirk
at that, though he wanted to do nothing more than wrap Emyr up and
hold him tight. “And it’s not like you haven’t seen it before,
though I might have to expose my feet as well today, because I have
puddles inside my boots. You’re not likely to be driven mad with
desire at the sight of my little pink toes, are you? I knew a man
once who swore that he would only marry a woman with perfect toes.
I mean, I’d look for a pleasant temper and a kind heart first, if I
was planning to settle down. I do love a handsome face, but a kind
heart’s worth more, don’t you think?”

“Heilyn.” Emyr was
staring at him, the despair in his face giving way to a faint
irritation.

Good. Heilyn pulled his
shirt off, and made himself keep babbling. “Look, no scars. Pumpkin
didn’t do me any permanent damage, or maybe it was just because you
patched me up so well. I do think that painting in his field was
actually the best decision I’ve made since I came to Sirig.” He
turned round to pull his boots and socks off, and patted his own
ass, making a face. “Sopping. Can’t really strip those off, though,
can I?”

“You… You’re
ridiculous.”

That stung a little,
but Heilyn couldn’t really deny that he’d been trying for that
reaction. Emyr stood up, glaring at him, and snapped, “Stay there
and warm up! I’ll get you a blanket.”

Heilyn did as he was
told, stripping down to his braies and crouching in front of the
fire. He was just beginning to worry again when the door cracked
open, and Emyr came back. Heilyn heard him stop in the doorway, but
the crackle of the fire was too loud to guess why, so he turned
around to look.

Emyr was just looking
at him, his eyes wide and his lips parted. There was color in his
cheeks again. After a moment, he swallowed and held out the blanket
he was carrying, letting it spill out of its folds. Heilyn went to
him, and Emyr folded the blanket around him. Then, with a little
broken breath, he wrapped his arms around Heilyn and buried his
face against his shoulder with a slow sigh.

Heilyn held onto him,
pressing soft kisses to his hair and murmuring vague reassuring
things. Emyr was a good man to hug, just skinny enough that Heilyn
could get his arms right round him, but still firm and solid and
strong. Heilyn could feel the muscles knotted in his back and
stroked warm circles over them until Emyr slowly relaxed.

At last Emyr said, his
voice muffled in the blanket, “I don’t understand what you’re doing
in my life.”

“I like you,” Heilyn
said, “obviously. In fact, I like you so much I’m going to cook you
dinner tonight.”

Emyr looked up, his
face skeptical. “You can cook?”

“Of course I can cook.
Well, I can scramble eggs, at least.”

So they had scrambled
eggs. Emyr sat in his usual place at the kitchen table and they ate
singed and crunchy scrambled eggs as the futile rain hammered at
the shutters (Heilyn had never claimed he could cook well, after
all, so what had Emyr expected?). It almost felt like a normal
evening until Emyr said, “I’ll make up the spare room for you, if
you like. Or…”

“Or?” Heilyn prompted,
the skin on the back of his neck prickling.

“I… I’m not inviting
you to seduce me, mind. It’s just…”

“You don’t want to be
alone in a storm.”

“I always thought that
was the best way, but…” He swallowed. “You must think very poorly
of me.”

Heilyn covered Emyr’s
hands with his own. “I could never think poorly of you.”

BUT WHEN they climbed
up to Emyr’s room, Heilyn felt less sure of himself. He’d never
shared a bed with someone just for comfort (top to tail in a cheap
inn to save pennies once or twice, but that hadn’t been intimate in
the way this was). He’d never even stayed until morning with a man
before. And this was Emyr, and that was Emyr’s bed, with its sheets
rumpled, and this was Emyr’s room, with the books he was reading
stacked beside the bed and an empty mug balanced precariously on
the edge of the basin.

“If you don’t want to,”
Emyr started.

“Just deciding my
strategy,” Heilyn said immediately. “I’m an expert blanket thief,
I’ll have you know.” And he dropped himself down in the middle of
the bed, where he could grin up at Emyr.

“Ridiculous,” Emyr said
again, but it was fond this time. “Move over.”

Heilyn rolled over, and
shivered a little as Emyr’s weight settled beside him on the bed.
He couldn’t quite make his body believe that it wasn’t about to be
loved, so he tried to slow his breathing. Emyr snuffed the lantern
and shifted in the bed again, the pillows tugging slightly under
Heilyn’s cheek. The bed smelled like Emyr, apple and dried spices
and ink, and Heilyn wanted to burrow into it and never leave. He
wanted to turn and curl up against Emyr, run his hands across bare
skin, and press quiet kisses to the back of Emyr’s neck. He could
hear Emyr’s breathing, slow and steady, and was suddenly convinced
that his own heart was beating at the same rhythm.

“He wasn’t kind.”

“What?” Heilyn said.
He’d thought Emyr was asleep.

“What you said earlier,
about a kind heart—Aneirin wasn’t kind. He was passionate about
life, and he was fun, and he always had a big dream and managed to
drag everyone along to fulfill it, but he wasn’t kind.”

“I’m sorry.” Heilyn
reached out blindly and found Emyr’s shoulder. He held on, as
tightly as he could.

“He was furious when I
said I couldn’t go with him, but I had no choice. People needed me
here, and so I got angry too, and then he.. he died, and I was
never angry enough to want that.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”
Heilyn thought about it, all the little bits and pieces of the
story people had let slip since he arrived on Sirig. “Nor was it
his fault. You were both so young, and it sounds to me like you
grew up, because you had to, and he stayed a child and didn’t
understand what you had to do. Nobody was at fault.”