by JD Ruskin
“I’m not afraid,” he insisted, because Bertie was talking about his treasure, he had to be, and that was serious, “but….”
“You see?” Bertie’s smile returned and Arthur could move again. He wanted to reach up, take the hand Bertie offered him. “Anyone else would know I meant gold and jewels and the like and would be leaping from their seat to get a closer look, but not you, Arthur. Not you.”
Bertie’s palm was dry though his hand was hot. Arthur felt it close around his and then he was on his feet and following after an impatient, anxious dragon. He kept his eyes on their hands because he wasn’t sure where else to look, at least not until they were up the stairs and he was somewhere he hadn’t been before.
He looked around as they moved down a dark hallway and noticed stacks of books on the floor and a few dishes, but then returned his attention to Bertie, who kept turning to look back at him with a question in his dark eyes. They passed a few doors that Arthur doubted had ever been locked, but he barely glanced over and then forgot all about them when Bertie stopped at the end of the short hallway and pushed the last door open.
It wasn’t locked either, Arthur noted, and inhaled with a loud gasp when Bertie let go of his hand and stepped aside so he could enter the room on his own.
It was a bedroom, Bertie’s bedroom. Arthur recognized that much from the large, custom-made bed. It was of a cherry-colored dark wood and low to the floor, surrounded by the kind of heavy velvet curtains that people in past eras had used to keep warm in cold castles of stone. The curtains had been pushed aside to reveal a multitude of pillows spread out over the bed, and the wall beyond the bed where an antique, full-length looking glass was resting by a chest of drawers of the same dark wood.
Arthur took in all of that between one blink and the next, and then he turned his head to look over the rest of the room, what was filling up the rest of the room.
It was impossible to see it all in one glance or even two. He stared until his eyes were burning and then stared some more. Bertie turned on the light, but he didn’t need to. Everything was so bright that it was blinding with it on. Even the reflection in the mirror was just another light among so many.
“This is….” Arthur couldn’t finish, and though he lifted his chin when he felt Bertie move behind him, he couldn’t quite tear his eyes from the treasure piled high in front of him. It was a scene from the Arabian Nights, or exactly what anyone would think of if asked to describe a dragon’s hoard. He could see coins of many sizes and metals from countless regions, each one probably just as valuable for its historical significance as it was for the gold or silver or bronze it was made of. There were some precious stones cut and set into jewelry—tiaras, crowns—and others with raw, jagged edges, as if they’d been torn directly from the walls of a mountain cave.
He counted seven swords before he stopped counting, and one suit of armor without even a hint that black smoke had ever touched it. Rolled up rugs, bolts of fabric, busts, and books were just more things to stare at, to try to calculate their value, their age, their significance. There were scrolls, obviously fragile even from a distance and set atop the stool beneath a large harp. There was another crown dangling from the top of the harp.
Arthur swallowed and then slowly turned to find Bertie. He found his gaze instead, hot on him in the reflection from that antique mirror, watching Arthur react to the sight of his treasure.
If this was even all of it, Arthur thought, just slightly hysterically, like he’d been to find similar items collecting dust downstairs. He wondered if there was a basement somewhere filled with heavy gold, and swallowed again.
“Why would you show me…? It’s incredible, Bertie, incredible…. No, I mean, look at all of this.” He stopped and forced himself to breathe and then say it again. “Why would you show me this?”
What had Kate said about the treasure when he told her he’d be working for a dragon? She made a joke about stealing it, because that was what most people thought of. Most people would have come into this house looking for this. They would have leapt to see it, just like Bertie had said. It hadn’t even occurred to Arthur. He’d been focused on the chance of finding a discarded scale.
He looked into those eyes, intensely black even at a distance and mirrored in glass.
“I know I said this before, but others need to see this.” Now that he had found his voice again, there was no stopping him. “The historical value alone”—he gestured blankly—“is incalculable.”
He would have held his breath if he could have, to wait for that raging stillness that meant earthquakes or Bertie upset, but it wasn’t there this time. Bertie had heard; he had to have heard, standing as close as he was, but he wasn’t moving away.
“You shouldn’t give this away,” Arthur was not entirely aware of what he meant, only that he could tell that Bertie loved it, that he slept in the same room with it, his treasure. He kept it close to him, and the expression on his face was all pride, so bright with love and pleasure that Arthur wanted to shut his eyes to it because all of that was for some gold. But it was spectacular, remarkable, unlike anything else he’d ever seen, short of pictures of King Tut’s tomb. “You can’t give this away. You can’t and you shouldn’t, not for anyone.”
“Oh, Arthur.” Bertie’s happiness sang through his words and slid lovingly down the back of Arthur’s neck to warm him beneath his clothes. “If you say so.”
Arthur frowned at him, as fiercely as he could with so much greed and hunger staring back at him and breath like hearth fires leaving him flushed. The rest of what Arthur had been going to say stuttered out.
“But if you want to share your knowledge, if you want others to see this, we could find someone to help you preserve and display it, if you don’t trust me.”
The heat at his back grew stronger, closer, but Arthur didn’t move when he felt and then saw Bertie’s hand curling carefully over his hip. His breathing stalled, but he kept still, even as Bertie gently pulled him back.
“Should I not trust you?” Bertie rumbled softly just above his ear. Arthur wondered distantly if that old, wise dragon look was in his eyes, if he could see everything Arthur didn’t want him to know. He had to feel Arthur’s shivers.
If he did, there was no point in denying it. Arthur should tell him everything, about his stray thoughts of possibly finding an old scale someday and using the money to pay off the last of Kate’s legal bills from her teenage DUIs and to get back into school. He hadn’t thought it would hurt him at the time, and he’d never go through with it now.
But he had already taken so much from Bertie, who had enough faith in Arthur to show him his treasure. What if he confessed to everything and Bertie demanded that he leave?
He loved this job and this house, and he’d never met anyone like Bertie. The thought of being without them made him shut his eyes and fight to breathe.
“Arthur?” The prompt came in a rasp, like a reminder that Arthur ought to move, as if even Bertie couldn’t believe that Arthur would shut his eyes to all that glory in front of him.
He opened his eyes and let out a wounded sound to see Bertie’s gaze shining at him.
“I don’t want to leave,” he gave in enough to whisper and felt the earth shake at his back as Bertie shuddered. The world seemed to steady as he inhaled.
“Then don’t.”
It came out so simply that Arthur froze, not sure he heard it right, but Bertie released him and stepped back and turned away from their reflection all in the same moment. He was breathing hard, just as hard as Arthur was, but he didn’t look over when Arthur stepped after him.
“The sofa, a guest room, even this bed, Arthur.” He gestured at the room. “Whatever you need, you have only to ask. You can borrow the car if you like, and drive to your apartment.”
It was a strange thing for him to be uncertain about, and Arthur thought of Kate trying to remind him that Beings were different. They weren’t that different, not where it counted. Some of them were bet
ter than any human Arthur had ever met.
“You’ll worry?” The question slipped out but Arthur knew the answer before Bertie nodded.
There was a room full of treasure behind them, a room full of treasure in a house probably filled with treasure, and Bertie was worried about Arthur riding his bike in the dark and the rain. And Arthur was… Arthur was tense to think of Bertie worrying. He didn’t want him to worry, not ever.
He licked his lips and then nodded.
“Okay,” he agreed. “When it’s late and the roads are wet, I’ll stay.” It made no sense when he’d be out riding his bike in the same weather every weekend evening, but Bertie went still. A moment later he was smiling widely.
He probably meant it to be victorious, or maybe like a leer, but it looked so relieved that Arthur smiled back until he realized that they were both standing and staring and smiling at each other.
He didn’t want to think about how dumb he must look and made himself glance down to the stacks of books and dishes that he still had to attend to. He coughed as he bent down to pick up a stack and didn’t look at Bertie as he headed downstairs. Bertie’s heat stayed close behind him, but Arthur didn’t comment, not about that, not with his face and body on fire.
“I wouldn’t need a bed.” He stumbled over the words, only realizing how they might sound after he said them. He left the books on the table and risked a look at Bertie as he turned. “I mean, the couch will do,” he added. Bertie huffed a soft laugh and winked at him as if he knew what Arthur had really meant and was just fine with it.
He took another second to eat Arthur up with his eyes and then grinned.
“Whatever you wish, pet, as long as you stay,” he was still there, grinning, when Arthur came back from the kitchen with tea.
IT DIDN’T rain for almost a week after that. Arthur was disappointed in ways he knew he shouldn’t think about, not that it stopped him from imagining what it would be like to wake up and see Bertie smiling at him or to feel the warmth of his presence even before he opened his eyes.
Not that he didn’t love Kate and spending time with her at home, but the first night, it had been difficult to look at her and not tell her about what Bertie had shown him. She guessed something, he could tell from how she looked at him, but it wasn’t what she was probably thinking.
He still couldn’t believe Bertie had shown him that room, but Arthur wasn’t going to shatter his trust now by telling everyone about it. He wanted to—the world needed to know about it, what Bertie had given him—but he’d never risk hurting Bertie now.
He turned his phone off after Dante sent him another text and only turned it on to call Kate. She always acted surprised to hear from him, as if Arthur hadn’t been around, when in fact he worked hard to be there for her. She was starting to do the same thing when Arthur walked in the door at night, feigning shock to see him spending a night at home.
He hadn’t told her anything, but he had a feeling there were lights still reflected in his eyes. If Kate could see them, then so could Bertie, but so far Bertie hadn’t said anything, not about that. Not unless Arthur counted the invitations to stay and watch TV with him at the end of each day, which were blatant attempts to get Arthur to stay longer.
The FBI show was apparently one of Bertie’s favorites. He also liked channels about cooking and telenovelas and reality shows about New Jersey.
He didn’t mind talking during TV shows either, or any questions Arthur might suddenly be compelled to ask in the middle of the news, like why he and the one other dragon Arthur had met both smoked, which turned out to be a self-conscious habit most dragons had about the smell of their breath due to how early humans had perceived their heat and dangerous, smoky auras. There had been quite a few references in many early stories to a dragon’s foul breath, but Arthur found that he didn’t mind the smoke scent. He was used to it, so Bertie didn’t need to continue smoking around him if he didn’t want to, but Arthur hadn’t worked up the courage to say that yet, so instead he’d asked more questions.
“Have you been to all those places you write about?” It seemed strange when Bertie had everything delivered so he wouldn’t have to leave his house. But Bertie nodded and patted his knee without looking over.
“Of course. You know, you really ought to get your passport in order.” He’d taken a moment to register Arthur’s silence and then finally glanced over. “Well, you are my assistant. You didn’t think it was just for the one book, did you?”
Bertie probably didn’t mind because he had his own questions. He would sit down next to Arthur while Arthur was typing and then reach out, letting his fingertips graze Arthur’s shoulder to get his attention, as if Arthur wasn’t very aware of whenever Bertie entered the room, and then sigh questions about lunch or dinner that would somehow evolve into conversations about Arthur’s favorite foods and what his mother had used to make him.
He was very interested in Arthur’s parents, or didn’t mind when Arthur began talking about them, but Arthur didn’t think Bertie would fake interest if he didn’t have any. He sat and listened and occasionally smiled and would only get up when Arthur finally remembered that they had work to do or the doorbell rang with a food delivery.
Sometime around five every day was when Bertie would stop and come out to cook or reheat something, or make scones for the morning if the mood struck him, and if Arthur didn’t watch out, he’d end up talking over dinner or watching television until close to eight. He could tell Bertie was waiting for him to say something, to protest or frown or get mad, but Arthur couldn’t. It was too nice.
It was better than nice, if Arthur was being honest. It was almost perfect, and it was getting harder and harder to leave every night. He wasn’t even sure why he was still making his way across town. There was no reason he couldn’t stay. He knew that. Kate even knew it. Bertie had told him he only had to ask. Arthur ought to ask. He knew what the answer would be.
But today there was no Bertie to ask in any case. Arthur came in to find a cool house and a note stuck to a flash drive on the table for him. The note simply read, Good morning, Arthur. The drive had several files in it, the first being titled “Wouldn’t some rain be exquisite?” and which turned out to be another note detailing how Bertie had been asked to replace a guest lecturer at the college a few towns over and had needed to leave early to get there; otherwise, as he was at pains to explain, he would have brought Arthur along with him. He was also going to visit their antiquities collections and didn’t expect to be back in time for dinner.
I don’t like to think of you eating all alone, but at least you will eat, won’t you, pet? the note ended, after another wistful remark about how coming home to a house without Arthur was markedly unappealing.
If he could have, Arthur would have printed it out and maybe folded it and tucked it into his pocket. As it was, he read it twice and felt stupid and then got up to work off his disappointment at not seeing Bertie by lighting a fire, bringing in more wood, and then turning up the heat.
He made a sandwich for lunch with the bread Bertie made over the weekend, which was only a little stale, and thought about Bertie eating with a bunch of professors and eager students while he brought down books from upstairs.
Of course Bertie was going to be popular: he was sexy and brilliant and exotic. Arthur wasn’t surprised by that. It didn’t matter anyway, not if he really did want nothing more than to come home to Arthur. Just the idea had Arthur restless.
By the afternoon, he decided he was going to take all the books out of the main room and put in more shelves in the other rooms, rooms without fireplaces, with air vents that could be controlled to regulate the temperature, but he dropped down on the couch before he could actually consider moving them all yet and opened up his laptop to go into the new files Bertie had left him.
Getting new shelves in the other rooms was asking a lot, but he had a feeling Bertie would agree to it if Arthur explained how it would be better for the books. He could even have cas
es put in to display some of Bertie’s relics and protect them from the elements.
It would make Bertie happy. Maybe not ecstatically happy, not like Arthur agreeing to stay the night, but it should make him smile, and Arthur wanted that.
He opened the new files, which turned out to be several chapters, and immediately dove into the first one, reading more than editing because the story was so compelling.
Bertie told it backward, starting with the English conquest of Wales and then going back over the Roman and Germanic tribes’ conquests in less detail. It was entirely different from the chapter he spent describing the culture and literature of the region. It was violent and bloody and full of treachery and scheming, and if Bertie had wanted to show exactly what the people and the dragons had been facing, or what had driven them together, he succeeded.
Arthur went back over the chapter a few times to add in his notes and leave questions he, and probably Bertie’s future audience, would have, and then he settled back on the couch to read the next chapter.
The difference in tone was startling. First, the quote to start the chapter, another Neruda quote but not the one Bertie had thought he would use: To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
And then the writing itself, which began like a fairy tale, the old kind of fairy tale, the kind kids used to hear before the world knew fairies were real.
“Once upon a time,” Bertie had written, and Arthur could hear him as if he was reading it out loud from the seat next to him. “If you will allow for so trite a beginning, once upon a time there was a village where the people were frightened because the mountains above them trembled every night. No one in this village could rest because they knew that the shaking of the earth was the rage of a dragon.
“They did not know why the dragon that lived in their mountains was angry; the ways of dragons were strange to them, and no one dared to approach such a creature to ask. Dragons lived among the gold and gems in the darkest caves of the mountains, and it was an unlucky human who dared interrupt their solitude.