Page 7 of A Heaven to Reach For

It was the second cup falling from Maschi’s other hand that returned some of Owin’s senses. The little priest—or not, not with those flowers nearly caressing his neck—was unsteady, and he seemed to tremble, though drinkers were usually hot, not cold.

Owin stepped forward to steady him and ask about the others—why they had left him there, why he had been drinking, why he had not continued to learn about kisses—or to take him home and put him to bed and to never speak of it, but Maschi moved his gaze beyond Owin to the man behind him. Maschi’s chin came up and he swayed once more, catching himself in time to prevent another stumble.

Always with Maschi, words appeared on Owin’s tongue that he could not say. He had done nothing to apologize for, except to find Maschi even more of a temptation as he was, painted and furious and soft.

Then Maschi dropped his shoulders. “I see,” he said quietly, perhaps not even to Owin at all, and pushed out a breath before turning around.

That nearly made him stumble, too.

None of their friends darted out to help him. Owin clenched his jaw as he vainly searched the shadows for another guard. But they were too busy drinking or fucking to help the little mage they had left alone with wine and a chain of aras blooms in his hair as if inviting someone to scoop him up and do what they would with him.

Which was a ridiculous thought. Of all of them, Maschi was possibly the most dangerous, and few would approach, much less harm, a priest, especially not one under the aegis of the Duke himself. Maschi was an adult, if small, and if he fell into a ditch to sleep off his wine, he would be sorer but wiser for it. He was Owin’s friend, but not a close one. It was not Owin’s place to fuss over his wellbeing where he might be caught doing so.

“I have to go,” Owin told the merchant anyway, already slipping his hand free. “Sorry.”

The village after the sun had set on the day of Ara was a different place. There was still music and laughter and heavy breathing, but it was far away. Lanterns illuminated the streets yet left other spaces dark and private, and the tinkling of bells was rarer now, with hands otherwise occupied.

Maschi was not difficult to find, weaving clumsily between closed market stalls, his hands clenched at the sides of his black tunic. Owin kept his distance until Maschi’s foot caught on a stone, then he reached out and took his arm, stepping beside him a moment later.

Maschi glared upward, then lost his footing entirely, crashing, solid and warm, into Owin’s side. “Owin?” he breathed in disbelief, and left it to Owin to get him back on his feet and facing the right direction. He curled his hand, which was surprisingly colder than the rest of him, into Owin’s tabard, then snatched it back once he noticed. “I am taking you from someone.”

Lantern-light was not enough to try to read Maschi’s expression, and Owin could not tell his mood from his chilly tone. If that would even be possible; a Maschi full of wine was going to be a new experience for the both of them.

Owin side-stepped a direct response. “I should go to bed. Get some rest, as you said. I had long days before this and I have an early rise tomorrow.” He did not think his tumble would have brought him much happiness as it was, and he would have had to walk home all the same. “I can return with you. See to it that you don’t decide to sleep in the mud somewhere, or in a pile of straw.” He paused. “That is a small jest. Too much to drink makes us all long for sleep.”

“I am very tired,” Maschi agreed, each of his steps heavy and careless. He was quiet for some time, turning his head once ina while as if to follow the noises coming from certain darkened places, but accepted Owin gently steering him forward every so often without a complaint. “I took you from someone,” he said again, after long enough that Owin had nearly forgotten the first time. “I don’t want to—no, that’s a lie. I shouldn’t lie. Lying serves no purpose.”

Owin glanced down to view the familiar frown in profile.

“I hear it’s a sin,” he pointed out playfully. “But it does serve a purpose on occasion. It can keep smart little postulates out of trouble.”

“I’m not… not a….” Maschi reached out to take Owin’s arm in an iron grip but plodded onward toward the road. Owin was not strong enough to carry him far, much less the whole way, but he considered it more with each heavy yet determined step. “I’mnot,” Maschi finished at last, firmly, and nodded. “I took you from someone. It isAra. You woreblue. Youwant.”

“It wasn’t a problem.” Owin did not lie. He regarded the few flowers he could see from this side for long enough that Maschi’s steps began to slow. Owin reminded himself to take smaller strides to let Maschi keep pace with him. “You are also wearing blue,” he said at last, barely shoving down the question that followed the statement. He swallowed, but the question rephrased itself to slip past his defenses. “How many kisses did you collect today?”

The light of the rising moon showed they were alone on the start of the country lane. There was no one else to hear or notice the roughness in Owin’s voice.

“Not enough,” Maschi announced darkly, then dropped his head. “Dahl kissed me twice.”

“I know.” There was that roughness again.

“Do you?” Maschi turned, but couldn’t peer at Owin and walk at the same time, and after some internal debate, seemed to choose walking. “Owin?” Owin’s name still emerged from Maschi with disbelief, though slightly breathlessly now. “I am not sure I care for kissing. Or… not all kisses.”

Owin took a deep, deep breath, then released it. It was what he had expected, with what he knew of other priests, and yet he was surprised. “Were those your first kisses, Maschi?”

Gentle though he was, he should not have asked. Maschi yanked his hand away. “You’re going to tease me.”

“No.” Owin shook his head to emphasize this. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You should.” Maschi crossed his arms. “I’m worth mockery. Everyone thinks so.”

Owin stopped him with one soft touch to his shoulder. “No, they don’t.”

Maschi angled his head up to give Owin a look that likely would have been devastating if the moon had been high enough for Owin to fully see it. “Yes, you do.”

“How can you think that?” Owin demanded, but the far-off clatter of a horse and cart, and a whistle from the driver as she saw them, made them both turn.

The driver turned out to be Marsilia, also in service of the Duke, who offered them a ride in the back of the cart, which Owin could not refuse when Maschi could barely stand upright. But Owin thought of it once he had accepted for them. It was a long walk they had taken together, and most of it in peace.

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