Sonata Form

by Carole Cummings

  It seemed sarcasm ran in the family.

  “I am not—Ow, hoy!”

  “Just sit still, I’ve almost got the one.”

  Milo slumped back, scowling at the top of Ellis’s head. “I am not sauced. And I am not a child.”

  Nine save him, he was proper pathetic. And why was it suddenly almost impossible to shut his mouth?

  “No, you’re not.” Ellis slipped the first splinter free and held it out on the tip of his finger for Milo to see. “But you’re acting like one.” He flicked the shard onto the bloodied handkerchief and went back to work. “Since when do you let what my tad says bother you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Milo’s voice was all at once too quiet, tentative, and if his mouth was going to keep running without his permission, Milo would prefer that the things that came spewing from it didn’t sound quite so feeble, thank you.

  “Right.” Ellis’s tone was tight. “Because you always jam your hand into broken glass and don’t even know it until it’s called to your atten—will you please hold still!”

  “Then don’t dig in there like you’re mining for treasure! That hurts!”

  Ellis peered at Milo, jaw set hard. “Mam is over at the Bluebell tonight. Shall I go get her?”

  He would go get his mam, wouldn’t he? And Milo was the child.

  Milo scowled. “Just go easy, all right?”

  “I’m going as easy as I can.” Ellis’s fingers were once again working carefully, gently trying to pry the last splinter free. “But you’ve gone and sunk it deeper and it will take a moment.” He took up the pitcher to rinse some of the welling blood away. “If you’d’ve let me see it when I—”

  “All right, so I’m sauced and I’m a child and I’m clumsy and useless and I don’t—OW! Blood and rot, Elly!”

  That one really hurt! Milo tried again to drag his hand away but Ellis wasn’t letting go.

  “Sorry,” Ellis said quietly.

  He didn’t look sorry at all. In fact, Milo was fairly certain Ellis had meant that last vicious jab.

  “There. All done.” Ellis held another shard out for Milo’s inspection. “That’s a big one. Must’ve been part of the stem.” He dug into Milo’s coat pocket, fished out his handkerchief, pressed it to Milo’s palm and closed his fingers over it. “Hold that there until the bleeding stops. Press firm, now.”

  Milo huffed. “I know.” It came out with a truculent bite again, and… bloody damn, what was wrong with him?

  Ellis rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

  Milo looked away, face hot, but he could feel Ellis’s gray gaze running through him, digging deep beneath his skin, slipping through his ribs like a knife, seeking. Milo shifted, drew his hand away, and this time Ellis let him.

  The silence stretched too long between them, the noise of the festivities a dull background hum. Ellis only kept staring, waiting, and for a moment, Milo wanted to clock him one for nothing more than making him feel so bloody exposed and naked beneath that stare. The almost pleasant haze of alcohol Milo had worked so hard to develop had dissipated; now he only felt tired, drained, and… and quite miserable, now that he thought about it.

  “You should get back to....” Milo waved his uninjured hand about. “Your dance partners will be looking for you.” He winced.

  All right, he was a child. A twelve-year-old whingy little creadur, petulant and jealous and—

  Damn it, they had a courtship contract with a conjugal rider, that was it, nothing exclusive, and for all Milo knew, it was all only a casual shag now and then when it was convenient for both of them. And he’d never even asked, had he, because… because it hadn’t occurred to him that he should. And maybe he didn’t really want to know because he didn’t want more than that anyway—he didn’t!—except apparently he did, and hadn’t had a clue. Which still didn’t mean Milo had any bloody right to expect that just because Ellis had invited him here it meant they were to be joined at the hip for the duration.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” Ellis wanted to know.

  Humiliation made the heat in Milo’s cheeks flare hotter. “Nothing. Stone me, Elly, I’m sorry.” He shook his head in a vain attempt to make his brain start working again then he stood. Ellis only watched him, new anger sparking in his eyes. “I’m sorry. It isn’t meant to mean anything. Only… you’ve duties, and guests to keep happy, and…” And bosoms to dance with and skirts to lift and Milo needed to escape, now, before he said something really bad and made more of a fool of himself than he already had. A lump was suddenly clogging his throat and he swallowed it down. “I… the privy and....” He turned and walked away.

  All right, so he fled. But, just to spite Folant, he threw a magelight up as he headed… somewhere. Away.

  The river was as good a place as any, he supposed. It was sort of in this direction, wasn’t it? There was the road, and trees and things, and… yes, the river was that way. Maybe he’d just dive in and see what happened. At worst he’d drown, but at best he’d be washed somewhere downriver, and he wouldn’t be here anymore.

  He needed his violin. He needed to stop thinking.

  And also, he needed to stop getting drunk in Wellech. There was clearly a developing pattern of it not ending well.

  This had been such a bad idea. He had to have known, somewhere deep down, what it was he’d been pretending he didn’t want. He had to have known, somewhere yet deeper, that he did want it, apparently very much, and wasn’t likely to get it.

  Because people didn’t stay, nothing ever bloody stayed! Tads died before they even knew you existed, nains died just when you were beginning to understand how badly you needed them, mams went away because everything I do is for you, and lovers… well. Milo didn’t really know—Ellis was the first real lover he’d ever had.

  He was lonely, that was what it was. Celebrating Ellis’s birthday reminded Milo that his own was coming up. There was no sign of his mam coming home. Howell and Glynn were about the place all the time, but it wasn’t the same. Milo was… worried. He could admit that now, once the anger had curdled and dried up, still leaving him confused and somewhat empty but no longer tamping. He was worried. Not only because his mam had left, but because she’d left without telling him, without giving him the chance to… he had no idea, and now he had no way of knowing if he ever would, and it burned.

  There was no possibility of going home and having his mam there to rant to. About Folant. About the growing hostility toward Dewin in general. About having his nose shoved in the fact that he’d been assuming things and perhaps had no right to. About how angry he was that his mam had left, and how it had apparently knocked Milo’s balance out from under him, and he hadn’t even known it until bloody Folant of all people had slung it in Milo’s face and made him see it. And now he couldn’t even seem to track the novel contours into which his own life had shifted.

  That was what this was. Confusion and disquiet and resentment that had nothing to do with Ellis. Wanting the reassurance of something more, something solid, but not entirely sure he wanted anything but the reassurance of an offer he had no right to expect Ellis to make when Milo didn’t have the stones to pony up and make it himself. And that wasn’t fair. Milo had no business taking any of that out on anyone but himself. So it was probably best he just steer clear of anyone he might catch in the blast radius of the sudden and unfathomable smoldering angst he hadn’t even known was burning in his gut somewhere and corroding his reason until Folant took a stick and poked at its coals.

  Tomorrow Milo would sober up and realize that he liked his life, he loved spending the time he was given with Ellis, and Milo had no business getting himself into a twist over something so incredibly foolish. Probably after he got done throwing up.

  Nine save him, he was a useless git, and why wouldn’t the ground just open up and swallow him?

  “Milo, wait!”

  Milo didn’t want to. Well, he did, but. No, he really did, or at least something in him did, because before h
e knew what he was doing, he’d swung around, distractedly pleased when he didn’t stumble, and stalked up to Ellis, who was walking fast toward him but pulled up short when he saw Milo coming at him with his little magelight bobbing along behind him. Ellis looked wary, concerned, confused, and Milo couldn’t blame him, since Milo’s hands were suddenly clenched in the silk of Ellis’s spendy waistcoat, and Milo’s mouth was already running without thought to what came spewing out of it:

  “I don’t want you to sleep with Alys Hughes dy Evans.”

  Ellis’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “…All right?”

  “I don’t want you to sleep with anyone.”

  Now they came back down and twisted. “Can I sleep with you?”

  Milo gave Ellis a bit of a shake. “This isn’t funny!”

  “It is a little.” Ellis set his hands over Milo’s. “What happened?”

  It was so soft. So concerned. It screwed into Milo’s chest, and made it hurt.

  “I.... He....” Milo’s eyes were burning, blurring, and damn it all, he refused to cry like an infant, except he thought maybe he already was. “Elly.” Thick and choked. “Elly. She—” Milo broke off, chest tight, head pounding, so many things pushing at him he hadn’t even known were there, and now they wouldn’t let him breathe. “She left. Elly, she left. It’s been months, and I don’t even know where she is except from stories in the bloody newspaper, and I don’t even know if those are true, or about her, or when she’s coming back, or if she’s even all right, because bloody Alton won’t even let me into his office, and Kymbrygh’s MP won’t admit to even knowing she’s gone, but after that woman in Brookings I’ve just been so… so… except I don’t want to be the ‘Dewin vermin’ that comes between you and your tad, but he—”

  “Did he actually say that?”

  “—wants you to court Alys, or really anyone but me, and we never talked about the contract, we never said no one else ever, and I don’t want to hold you back, but that’s a lie because I really really do, and I’m sorry, I really am, but everything is… my whole bloody life just sort of went doolally, and I didn’t even notice until your tad took it apart between shots of liquor like he was bloody dissecting my sad little corpse, and Elly… Elly. It—”

  Hurt. It hurt.

  “Shh, Milo.” Ellis let go of Milo’s hands and pulled him in tight against his chest. “It’s all right.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Milo, it’s all right.”

  “It’s not. Nothing feels all right but this and you. And I’m really sorry. I don’t mean to put so much on you. I don’t mean to—”

  “D’you think I’d rather be anywhere else but here with you?”

  “No, because you’re probably the best, most generous person I’ve ever met, and a gormless numpty besides, who’d rather be a rock for someone to dash themselves to pieces on instead of enjoying your own birthday party.” Milo snuffled. “Also, I’m getting snot all over your waistcoat, and I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding on it too.”

  Ellis laughed, startled, but deep and real enough that it jostled Milo’s head against Ellis’s shoulder. He pushed Milo back, squinted into his eyes; whatever he saw must’ve been rather pathetic, because his whole face softened, and he set his broad hand to Milo’s damp cheek.

  “Is this you asking for a cariad contract?”

  Milo opened his mouth. Closed it. Said, “Yes?” He shook his head. “Some day? Maybe? I don’t know.” Ellis frowned, cautious, and slid his hand away. Milo reached for it with the hand that wasn’t a bloody mess and laced their fingers together. “The logistics would be a nightmare. You can’t leave Wellech for more than a week or so. And I can’t leave Whitpool.”

  “True.” Ellis was still looking at Milo like he was trying to see into his skull. “Brookings is nice.”

  “But neither of us could live there.”

  “Right. Yes. We have responsibilities.”

  “People depend on us.”

  “And dragons.”

  “And dragons.”

  Ellis stared at Milo, thoughtful. “The Sisters would never approve a cariad contract unless one of us agreed to move.”

  “It can’t be you.”

  “It can’t be me. And they’ll never let it be you, not unless you’ve got another dragonkin up your sleeve.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then the Sisters—”

  “The Sisters can go hang!”

  Ellis smiled, muted and pained. “Except it’s not that easy.”

  “I know. Don’t you think I know?”

  “Milo....” Ellis looked away. Hesitant. Uncomfortable.

  “…Oh.” Milo’s stomach swooped. “Oh, blood and rot. You’re trying to think of a way to say no without hurting my feelings, aren’t you?”

  “What?” Ellis blinked. “Where in the world—?”

  “It’s all right.” Milo tried to pull his hand away… couldn’t. “I’m so sorry. You were having fun, and I’ve gone and spoilt it all with all these—”

  “No, that’s not what—”

  “—stupid feelings, though to be fair I wouldn’t’ve even known they were there except your tad’s a stonking great arse, and save me, Elly, you’re so damned lovely, and you make me laugh, you make me feel important, and I didn’t even know this was in me until—”

  “For pity’s sake, Milo, belt up already!” Ellis gave Milo a little shake, just enough to jostle his flapping mouth shut. “Whatever all that was,” Ellis said slowly, “has nothing to do with what I was going to ask.”

  Milo tried to make his nod bracing and not as forlorn as he felt. “We can still be friends.”

  “For the love of—” Ellis rolled his eyes. “I really might have to murder you. With knives.” Exasperated. “It has nothing.... Only.” He sighed, teeth clenched, and peered up into the heavens as though looking for strength before he leveled Milo with an even stare. “Tell me all this isn’t only because you’re drunk and sad, and my tad—”

  “No. Elly, no.” Milo squeezed Ellis’s hand. “But I can’t pretend he didn’t make me see some things I don’t really want to see. Things are changing. Most of it not good. Folant isn’t the only bigot in Kymbrygh, and associating yourself with Dewin right now probably isn’t—”

  “I don’t actually want to know how you plan to finish that sentence.” Ellis’s jaw was set hard.

  “You can’t make it not true.”

  “I can make it less true. I am making it less true.”

  “Which is why you’re needed in Wellech.”

  “Except I want the same things you want.”

  “You....” Milo got a little lightheaded. “You do?” He’d been sure five seconds ago that he’d ruined everything, and now—

  “Yes, you bloody idiot. And apparently for longer than you have, but I’ll take ‘better late than never,’ because you really are unfortunate in the head sometimes.” Ellis huffed and ran a hand through his hair. “So now that that’s settled, thank every goddess—what do we do?”

  Milo looked away, trying to wrap his gooey thoughts around the abrupt shift in his brain and his stupid, stupid heart, while also trying to figure out what could come next.

  Because, yes. What did they do?

  “I guess....” Milo shut his eyes, leaned in, and set his head to Ellis’s shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now except I want you for mine, and I don’t care how selfish it makes me.”

  “All right.” Ellis wrapped his arms around Milo, squeezed good and tight. “Good.” He pushed Milo back. “Then let’s do this as properly as we can.” His frown was musing as he jammed his hands into his pockets, searching, then a waggish grin bloomed when he came up with something small and shiny, glinting in the magelight as he held it out in his palm. “An exchange of tokens upon the signing of a cariad contract is the done thing, yeah?”

  “But we’re not signing—”

  “Because we don’t need a piece of paper to tell
us how we’re allowed to feel.”

  The sharp tone of it made Milo a bit wibbly. He tried not to look too besotted as he peered down into Ellis’s hand. He blinked.

  “It’s a key.”

  “To my heart.”

  Milo gave him a flat look.

  Ellis grinned. “Sorry, couldn’t resist.” He didn’t look sorry at all. Because apparently the poetry of Ellis’s soul was one half poignant, passionate sonnets and the other half was dirty pub song lyrics. He did soften the grin into something more sincere, though, when he took Milo’s hand and dropped the key into it. “It’s to the Croft. To my home. Because you’re my home now. Wherever you are. For as long as you want to be.”

  All right, that… very nearly made Milo melt. He swallowed past the giant ball of emotion clogging his throat and dove into his own pockets, looking for something, anyth—Ah!

  “Have you got one?” Milo had asked that long-ago day when Nain had told a wee Milo to Look at a dragon, and the dragon had Seen Milo in return and claimed him as kin.

  “I had,” Nain said. “I gave mine to Bamps.” Soft. Melancholy.

  Milo only knew he’d had a bamps once, back when he’d still been in Mam’s belly, but Bamps had been in the ground by the time Milo was born. “Did he not give it back?”

  Nain smiled, sad but fond, and tugged at the short bill of Milo’s bobbled knit cap. “It’s exactly where it belongs.”

  Milo didn’t even know if he’d thought about it before, that Nain had buried her cariad with her dragonstone still in his pocket. Now that he did, now that he understood....

  It would hurt to let it go. But he reckoned that was partly the point.

  “It’s a dragonstone.” Milo dropped it into Ellis’s outstretched hand, feeling his magic swell all around him—easy, safe, because that’s how things were with Ellis—a soft reach first then a flare outward, winding right into Ellis’s nimbus, and turning every mote of him a lovely warm gold. Milo made himself not stare. “I’ve had it since I was tiny.”

  “I remember.” Ellis’s voice was quiet, and his gaze was intent on the stone in his palm. He shifted, shoulders stretching loose, as though he could feel Milo’s misbehaving magic curling around him like an overly enthusiastic coat. “You showed me when we were boys.”