Page 9 of Tossing the Caber

Laurel’s expression, fear and shame, is the last thing Beacon registers before his vision darkens, fading to a vacuous nothing.

Beacon comes to with a shudder and a gasp. The memory of suffocating brings him to a cresting panic, a moment where he doesn’t know if he’s still alive or in the underworld’s vestibule.

A soft, soothing hum draws his attention from the harsh recollection.

“Shhhhhh,”comes a tender whisper, followed by dark pink fingers stroking the back of his hand. “You’re alright,” the owner of the fingers says next. “It’s alright, you’re fine. You’re in the medical tent.”

Beacon scans the space briefly, finding the assertion true. Then his gaze falls upon the speaker, leaving him feeling as if he’s still asleep. Or still breathless.

“Laurel,” he croaks.

Despite Laurel’s altered complexion, Beacon can still admire when his cheeks flush prettily. “Our parents are discussing… wedding arrangements at the Legal Pavilion. I volunteered to stay behind with you.”

“I see.” Beacon stretches, then groans.

“What hurts?”

“Ah, nothing,” he hedges. “Just stiff.” In truth, his chest hurts, and there’s a vicious, throbbing ache behind his eyes. And that’s ignoring his scratchy throat.

Laurel nods as if Beacon had given the truth instead of an excuse. “The spell I used to keep your airway open until the medics arrived can cause lingering cramps. I brought something for that.” He pulls a small jar of salve from the side table. “May I see your wrist?”

For no rational reason, Beacon shakes his head ‘no,’ doubling down on his assertion that he’s fine.

Catching Beacon’s uneasy stare at the jar, Laurel winces, misinterpreting his intention. “Don’t worry, I washed my hands thoroughly. Extract of mint—or any oil, really—can be very stubborn, difficult to remove, but the soap I infuse personally is… I mean it’s, the magic I use—” He swallows hard. “I’m so sorry for what happened. I made a terrible first impression.” He chews his bottom lip, which is a darker, more neutral shade than the rest of his skin.

What’s the name for that color?

Beacon couldn’t give a damn about first impressions, and he doesn’t like the shame in Laurel’s expression. How was he to know that something as simple as spilling oil in a rush would nearly kill his intended? It was an accident, pure foul luck. But the memory of Laurel’s father raising his voice as if Laurel had knowingly created a disturbance rolls around in Beacon’s thoughts, making him grimace.

Unwilling to contribute to Laurel’s discomfort, Beacon mutely offers his arm. He fears being challenged, but Laurel remains silent, cradling Beacon’s hand in his callused palm so he can dab strong-smelling salve on the inside of Beacon’s wrist. He gestures for the other one, which Beacon provides.

“Now your throat. Is that alright?”

Beacon shakes his head on reflex because he doesn’t want a stranger near his face. Laurel’s brow furrows, drawingBeacon’s attention to the skin around Laurel’s upturned eyes. There are more freckles of green creeping along his strong, curved nose into a spray across his cheeks, continuing down his neck before disappearing under his low collar. They shimmer even in the dim lighting of the medical tent.

A surge of interest quells Beacon’s initial instincts. “Sorry. Yes.”

Laurel smiles, the tiniest upturn of lips, and to Beacon’s relief, he doesn’t comment before dabbing the salve on either side of Beacon’s throat. As he leans in, the low collar of his tunic droops, giving Beacon a glimpse of the smooth planes of his chest.

The rough edges of his fingertips scrape Beacon’s stubble when he swallows.

“There,” Laurel murmurs. He returns to his seat, taking the view of his strangely colored skin with him. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Water,” Beacon admits, although he’s uncomfortable allowing someone to care for him. He reasons that a marriage should be equal—as his parents have always demonstrated—and if Laurel is embarrassed, Beacon can shoulder some of it as well.

Laurel pops up as if his seat ejected him. It’s then Beacon takes stock of his surroundings; Laurel said he was in the medical tent, which Beacon is no stranger to. Thick canvas curtains hang on either side of this nook, separating him from the next patient. Laurel disappears behind one of the dividers, quickly returning with a cup. Droplets of water spill over his fingers as he rushes.

Although Beacon would like to assure Laurel he doesn’t need to hurry so, he genuinely doesn’t know how. He tries to maintain a calm disposition, accepting the offering with a wordless nod of appreciation. Laurel doesn’t seem bothered by his silence. His amber gaze tracks the cup all the way toBeacon’s mouth, tension only leaving his face when Beacon has swallowed and offered the half-empty cup for him to place on the side table.

The rush of cool water soothes Beacon near-instantly. He rolls a sound in his throat, finding it clear enough to enquire, “What time is it?”

He’s not expecting Laurel’s knuckles to pale when he clenches his hands into fists. “It’s evening. Past six.” He sounds apologetic.

It takes Beacon a moment to sort out why. “Ah, the games,” he says under his breath.

One of Laurel’s long, elegantly pointed ears twitches. “I’m sorry. You missed them because of me.”

Beacon gives a dismissive wave. “The others will have handled it.” In truth, he didn’t want to participate in the community games anyway. Too loud, too much proximity to strangers unfamiliar with his boundaries.