Dreamspinner Press Year Six Greatest Hits

by JD Ruskin

  If Bertie had meant what he’d been saying outside of Arthur’s dreams, then he was interested, but he was leaving it to Arthur to make a move if he wanted to. Which was stupid, as Arthur always told Bertie in his dreams. Of course he wanted to. He wasn’t blind and he wasn’t immune to all that attention focused on him, but when he woke up from dreams of Bertie’s mouth, of that tongue at his ass, of Bertie fucking him, it never felt real, and so Arthur just worked and turned his head whenever Bertie called him a pearl so Bertie wouldn’t see his blushes.

  It was better that Arthur didn’t do anything about his fantasies. Arthur realized that all over again as he got to Bertie’s house and heard his phone beep with a new message.

  Bertie trusted him, he thought again as he reached for his key to the house and then for his phone. The message was from Dante. He had asked Dante for information a few weeks ago, but seeing that name lit up, Arthur shoved his phone back in his pocket without reading the rest.

  Dante was a wealthy professional student, well known around the school as the go-to guy for anyone looking for drugs, term papers, or fake IDs. Not that he dealt with any of that himself, he just always knew a guy. Dante knew everyone, including the kind of human magicians with means enough to buy their way to greater magical power. It was the only reason Arthur had contacted him or had anything to do with him.

  He felt sick, the internal warmth at the thought of seeing Bertie this morning all gone. Bertie had probably made scones again. He wanted to feed Arthur, and here Arthur was, about to find out if there was anyone out there interested in buying a dragon scale.

  Of course there would be. The power in those scales, even in a scale that fell off naturally as opposed to one given freely or one removed by force, was legendary. Arthur had thought… he thought when he asked Dante that it was only a possibility he might come across one. He might find a scale in the garbage or lying around or something, an unneeded, forgotten scale to take home and sell to get creditors off his back and maybe help with the rent until he could afford someplace better.

  He hadn’t had the job then. Hadn’t known Bertie. Hadn’t been fed and called a pearl. He’d assumed Dr. Jones wouldn’t even miss the scale, and though it felt wrong to have even a small ulterior motive in taking the job, he told himself it wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t stealing to take someone’s trash.

  Stealing or not, however, it was dishonest. It felt dishonest. He knew it even then. He’d be looking his employer in the face, and instead of just being grateful for an incredible job opportunity, he’d be thinking about taking something from his home.

  He scowled and reached in to turn his phone off. It worked for bill collectors, it could work for Dante. Then he looked around again, at his bike resting against the wall and then at the key in his hand.

  Arthur was the only one locking and unlocking the door. Bertie certainly wasn’t doing it. Maybe Arthur should just accept that even almost stealing wasn’t for him. To take anything of Bertie’s, much less sell it for money, made him close his eyes to fight off a wave of sickness.

  Of course, the creditors would keep calling, even if Dante didn’t. There were medical bills and student loans and an old credit card needing to be paid off, to say nothing of the cost of living, food, rent, clothes.

  Arthur inhaled and pushed the door open, hoping the air that swept in with him would disguise the guilt twisting his stomach if Bertie should scent the air, but if Bertie noticed anything other than his arrival, he gave no sign.

  “Arthur!” he called out, moving across the room like he’d been pacing a moment before and still had momentum. “Where is that volume of Neruda? I am fairly certain I left it in here.”

  “Ah.” Arthur moved, both to hide from that sharp gaze and to seek out the book in question. “I meant to ask why there were so many notes in a book of Chilean love poems.”

  Bertie pounced on the book when Arthur produced it, though Arthur had plucked the notes from it a few days ago. Bertie flipped through it and then gave Arthur a wounded look to find it empty. Arthur dashed to his backpack for his laptop with Bertie right on his heels.

  Arthur seemed to be the only one affected by all that warm, heavy breathing right in his ear and the near contact of their bodies. He skipped back to the couch with his laptop and sat as he opened it up, saving himself from any more torture.

  Bertie still didn’t seem to notice Arthur’s flush or shaking hands. He looked from Arthur to the pages of the book to Arthur again while the computer started up and only calmed when Arthur found the notes in question and began to read them out loud.

  Maybe reading love poems wasn’t the best way to cool his heated skin. The lines were intimate, sad in a soft way that Arthur hadn’t found in Classical love poetry. Even the words about sex, already suggestive enough to make him afraid to look up, were filled with a longing that made his chest ache.

  Arthur read until the Neruda-related notes were done and Bertie’s eyes were closed on some thought, though he couldn’t see what these quotes had to do with Bertie’s book. His outline, which had been bare of most details, had only suggested that not all of the dragons fled to the mountains and underground the way most other dragons had when humankind, desperate to prove itself, turned on them.

  It had been the lines comparing waiting for someone to a lonely house that made Bertie shut his eyes to think. Arthur waited with his fingers over the keyboard after pulling up the outline.

  “That’s the one, Arthur, but only toward the end. Because the betrayal wouldn’t matter, not to a wise, learned race that knew what it was seeing. They would only wait, the breathlessly romantic little darlings.”

  “What?” Arthur asked as he typed, because notes were notes even when he didn’t understand them, and keeping track of these things was his job.

  Bertie opened his eyes to look at him. “I think I’ll begin the chapter with it. I do like a line that makes me cry, and I don’t want things to get too dry and boring.”

  It was good that Arthur was used to professors who talked fast, so he could keep up. He nodded as he typed.

  “You want the line to head a chapter?” He considered that. “Is that what most of these notes are about?” He thought back to Bertie’s other books. One he’d finished, the other he was working on. There were quotations scattered through them, but no structure that formal. They had clearly been more along the line of thoughts interspersed with the text to humanize—if Bertie wouldn’t mind the expression—the subjects of his work. “If I get more of what your book is about, I can help with that… expand the outline.”

  He made the offer without thinking, but there was no trace of Bertie’s supposed demanding, possessive nature on his face at the mention of his unfinished book. He blinked and then closed the volume of poetry to study Arthur from his toes to his head. Arthur realized he still had his jacket on, and that he must have turned his phone to silent mode, not off, because it buzzed in his pocket.

  “Did I interrupt a call as you came in?” Bertie huffed, which was odd, but Arthur had never seen Bertie fired up about his work before. Maybe he was always like that when he was excited. It must be something to see him looking over relics or in old libraries, drawing every eye with that brilliant spark, calling everyone he met “darling” and “pet.” He waved the Neruda in the air to get Arthur’s attention. “You can take calls, Arthur, in your free moments.”

  “I… this wasn’t a free moment.” Arthur decided that answer was the safest. Bertie glared at Arthur’s pocket anyway, his words coming out so slowly they might have been the last things he felt like saying.

  “Work and school, being here, must cut into your social life. A morsel like you must be wanted from all corners, even if most would be too intimidated to approach you, with that warrior’s determined glint in your eye.” He ignored Arthur’s small jump and quick swallow as he growled the words. “I wouldn’t want to deny you your fun.”

  “All corners?” Arthur repeated faintly, though he hadn’t intend
ed to. That was getting close to what Bertie had hinted before, that Arthur was the type to attract some Beings.

  “Bold of purpose, pure of heart, fair of face,” Bertie elaborated, then sniffed. Arthur belatedly noticed that Bertie was barefoot again, and despite complaining about the cold had unbuttoned the top buttons of his white dress shirt to expose his throat. “Those in your past haven’t been good for you if they never told you that. Though I wish you’d smile more. It makes me want to hunt for dimples when you frown so.”

  Arthur wasn’t frowning at the moment. He knew he wasn’t. He was hot and frozen at the same time, but he wasn’t frowning.

  “I don’t,” he got out, in a wheeze if he were being honest.

  “What, have dimples?”

  “Have people in my past. I mean,” Arthur sat up and put out a hand when he realized what he just said. What he admitted to. Bertie’s mouth snapped closed like it was too late, but Arthur had to try. “Clematis—”

  “Clematis is a flower name.” Damn, Bertie was fast. Too fast. “Was that the fairy you spoke of before?” Arthur couldn’t smell herbs, but the air seemed to be getting hotter, smokier, like Bertie’s voice as he put together Arthur’s words in the way that Arthur had been afraid of. “Arthur when you said you don’t have people in your past… do you mean that despite the fairy….” He twitched, like he had to stop himself from moving. The very air around him grew hot, and Arthur thought of earthquakes again, something earth shattering just beneath the surface that had Bertie excited. “Arthur, are you pure of body as well?”

  It took everything Arthur had to shake his head, though sometimes he thought everything with Clematis had been a dream. When he considered it, they’d only been together, really together, for one night, and everything else had been random and hurried, kisses and messing around like he’d done in high school, nothing more.

  “This isn’t….” His mouth was dry. Bertie looked like he was moments from crawling onto Arthur’s lap, his heavy-lidded eyes doing nothing to disguise his wide pupils. They sparkled with interest. Arthur did his best to remind himself that if there was interest there, it was probably just curiosity, and probably amusement as well since Arthur had basically admitted to being almost a virgin. Technically, he wasn’t, but one night wasn’t much experience, and Clematis hadn’t been the kind to bend him over a table. “This isn’t appropriate.” It was a weak argument, but it was an argument. Arthur had a feeling he might not have done too badly with a shield if he were in one of those old stories, though he still couldn’t imagine himself using a sword, not even the way he pretended to as a child.

  “I could fire you and then be inappropriate,” Bertie immediately suggested, and even knowing that it was a joke, or hoping it was a joke, Arthur jerked his head up and inhaled loudly. “Arthur.” Alarm was rich in Bertie’s voice for a moment and then he stepped closer and leaned in to put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. When Arthur looked up he could only see his eyelashes, but his tone was serious. “I’m not getting rid of you.” He took another moment, his hand hot even through Arthur’s jacket, and then he smiled and met Arthur’s wide-eyed stare. “Humans.”

  He was so quiet that Arthur blinked.

  “What? We do okay.” He was quiet, too, but then Bertie was leaning over him, emanating heat and touching him with gentle concern. It was mesmerizing. Arthur didn’t want to move.

  “Yes, but think of what you could do.”

  Arthur had to fight not to close his eyes he was suddenly so warm, wisps of Bertie’s breath brushing across his cheeks.

  “And dragons are so much better?” He thought it would make Bertie take offense and stand up straight, but he didn’t.

  “Have you even read my books about Beings? Never mind, you haven’t had time yet, have you? Very well, I won’t pretend I’m not hurt,” Bertie paused, Arthur assumed to wait for his interruption, which wasn’t long in coming.

  “Neither of the books the library had was about dragons,” he protested. “I’m reading the others.”

  “Hmm, then if you like, Arthur, I can give you a brief history of dragons… share what I know with you.” It was almost illicit the way Bertie made the offer: all knowing, shining eyes and heavy breathing. Arthur felt himself staring and drew his eyebrows together into a frown at how obvious he was being.

  “Okay,” he agreed, his face burning up in a way that only got worse at Bertie’s slow, curving smile. Arthur glanced down at the hint of shining skin visible at Bertie’s collar. “What… what about the Welsh dragons?”

  “I have my theories. European dragons in particular have a culture rich with romantic stories… romantic to us, that is, though most consider them old-fashioned now. How humans interpreted things is another matter.” Bertie clucked thoughtfully and licked his mouth before abruptly pulling back and moving around. “Nonetheless, it is—or was, you would say—a culture that views things in a larger context, a view of the world as connected and as something… beautiful. The dragons of early Europe for the most part believe in eternity through the accumulation of beauty and knowledge, and this allows them to go, shall I say, over the top sometimes.”

  Arthur didn’t think Bertie was aware that he paced slowly back and forth as he lectured. He was like a strangely intense professor. The subject must mean a lot to him. Arthur sat up to follow his every movement. Bertie was talking about history in the present tense again, as if he was reliving it in his mind, but at least he wasn’t laughing at Arthur’s lack of a sex life anymore.

  “That demands, well”—he waved as he talked—“big gestures. Like the courtly love stories that were written later about Camelot and knights, with people being worshipped from afar and served unto death without even so much as a kiss in return, and don’t dare think that concept wasn’t draconian in origin and stolen by some human troubadours. That idea of romance continues to influence us, often to our detriment.” He stopped and peered at Arthur for a moment before striding back over and dropping down on the couch next to him. “It’s humans, you see. You also strive, but you’re so… you’re just… I don’t wish to say shortsighted. Blind to some things perhaps, but courageous in how you press on. There’s something innately fascinating about….” He trailed off. “We can’t simply let you struggle.”

  He wasn’t making sense. Not really. Though maybe when Arthur read his books on dragons it would all click.

  “I thought it was about gathering and keeping treasure.” Arthur turned in time to catch how lost Bertie looked, as though Arthur had cut him off midthought.

  “What?” He actually scowled for a moment and then light seemed to dawn and he grinned. “Treasure? Oh, Arthur.”

  The glimpse of teeth made Arthur pull back, though it wasn’t in fear, not with Bertie mocking him for being short-sighted, or blind, or whatever it was he’d been trying to say.

  “Cheshire cat.” Arthur couldn’t help snapping back his reply, especially when saying it out loud made Bertie stop and stare at him as if Arthur was the one speaking another language now. It made Arthur want to keep going and he did, not entirely suppressing his smile. “From Alice in Wonderland. You move like a cat too sometimes.”

  Bertie opened and then closed his mouth. Arthur got the faintest hint of smoke before Bertie grinned again.

  “Then the question, Arthur, is… do you like cats?” He didn’t seem to care for Arthur’s silence, though Arthur couldn’t think of how to answer. He made a scolding noise. “So serious, Arthur. What shall I do with you?”

  That, Arthur could answer at least. “Set me to work.” Anything rather than continuing to discuss his sex life with a hot dragon breathing all over him. He got a sigh, but Bertie leaned back against the other arm of the couch and then nodded as well.

  “What will you do when this room is cleared?”

  “Move on to the next room. And then the next.” Arthur didn’t have to think about it. Bertie nodded again while regarding him intently.

  “Until the house is yours. I see.” He laz
ily reached up for a cigarette, but he didn’t light it, just kept it grasped in his fingers. “Keep that up and I won’t be able to live without you.”

  “That wasn’t my intention,” Arthur rushed to answer. He didn’t want Bertie to think he was pushing for a permanent position. It would be amazing, but he couldn’t ask for more as it was.

  “There is your education to consider however,” Bertie rolled on in a rumbling whisper. He stared at his cigarette and then licked the tip before letting it rest between his lips. “Do you think I might read your thesis, Arthur?”

  “Yes.” Arthur had no idea what he’d agreed to for a moment, until he blinked and looked away from Bertie’s mouth. “If you really want to.” He’d thought Bertie would have before he’d hired him actually.

  “Good.” The grin returned. “I already asked Gibson for it.” Bertie angled his head to the side as he said it, the strong line of his throat visible, muscle and warm skin and gleaming scales.

  Arthur could only guess what those scales felt like in their real form and if, when they were like that, they were warm, too, or sleek, or hard and cool to the touch. That was what Arthur found innately fascinating, and it had nothing to do with the magic supposedly in them. It made it so much worse to realize that he had ever thought of them as something to be sold. He remembered them as being beautiful, even before he thought of them as a part of Bertie, who was crazy but kind and one of the most interesting men he ever met.

  Arthur swallowed and jerked his gaze away, staring at the bookshelves that he’d already been through and emptied.

  “Once again you are right, Arthur.” Bertie leapt to his feet, his cigarette flaring brightly as though he’d lit it when Arthur hadn’t been looking. “The grindstone awaits. I’m behind schedule as it is.”

  He left the book behind on the couch, apparently no longer in desperate need of it. Because Arthur had done his job well, Arthur reminded himself, and pulled the book closer.