Page 12 of Tossing the Caber

Laurel clenches his jaw. “Try.”

Pursing his lips, Beacon scans the little creek and its surroundings. Although Laurel doesn’t own this spot—he’s certain others have been here, and it’s so small it doesn’t even have a name—it feels vulnerable for his future husband to regard a treasured safe space with what looks like apathy.

“My parents required I marry,” Beacon says finally. “It will reflect badly upon them as leaders of the Sure-of-Foot clan if I don’t attract a partner.”

“Is it because you need an heir?”

Beacon’s expression shifts into something queer, almost bashful. His eyes skirt from Laurel, and he turns around, showing him his back. The sunlight catches gaps in the tree branches, whispering leaves that sway in the wind, and hits Beacon’s mussed red hair, turning it to a bright, shivering copper that reminds Laurel of the forge at the smithy. Beacon presses his fingertips to the bark of the widest tree trunk, and says, “No. I do not need to produce an heir.”

Huffing, Laurel says, “That’s good. Even with all the modifications I’m capable of, impregnating men is still beyond my reach.” Laurel is a cosmetic artisan, not a surgeon, and he has no plans to alter people’s basic physiology.

Beacon makes another of those ‘might-be-a-laugh’ sounds. When he looks over his shoulder, his hazel eyes are warm. “That’s alright. I couldn’t impregnate you anyway.” Before Laurel can question that, Beacon continues: “I never wanted to get married. I had another betrothed before this, and I did everything I was capable of to alienate her until she begged her parents to break off the arrangement. They obliged.”

It’s more than Laurel has ever heard Beacon say in one go. He inhales deeply, the forest invading his nostrils. Holding space.

“That was many years ago,” Beacon explains, gesturing with a broad hand to indicate the length of time. Laurel wonders how old he is. “I’m more mature now.”

“An impressive admission,” Laurel comments.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Self-awareness is… I couldn’t keep running from it.”

Laurel bites his lip and drops his gaze to the forest floor. He needs stimulation, something to ground him, so he fights off his boots until his feet are bare, tail swishing behind him to maintain his balance. Once steady, Laurel pads forward, damp earth pressing into the soles of his feet, and walks into the creek. Fresh water trickles from small rock formations, washing away the dirt.

Today, Laurel had time to weave his hair into a nicer braid than his usual hastily tied plait. He sighs, grabbing the tip so he can fiddle with the black strands and their split ends. His father is both neglectful and attentive; Rodney notices things in irregular patterns Laurel can’t guess or keep up with. When something Laurel’s done wrong catches his attention, that’s when it’s handled. Rodney hasn’t minded Laurel’s split ends, or the way his wispy bangs frame his face, or the length creeping past his waist, so he hasn’t had it cut.

“What do you need from me?” Beacon asks.

When Laurel turns, Beacon has walked closer to the edge of the creek.

“I want to know what you want,” Laurel says with a jabbing finger. “Whatyouwant fromme. Will we ever find an equilibrium, if not happiness? You don’t have long to decide, and for that, I’m sorry.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“I can still be sorry.”

Beacon tips his head in acknowledgment.

“I just need to… Will you allow me to continue my work? AsThe Anatomancer?” Such nerves overtake him that Laurel feels his tail wrap around his leg, putting a visual to his anxiety.

A disgusted wrinkle takes over Beacon’s expression. Laurel hadn’t realized how open he was being until he closes off again. “I would not keep your interests from you.”

“But I’ll be leaving with you,” Laurel says.

Frowning, Beacon says, “Yes. Can you not continue your work in Stehr’s Peak?” When Laurel doesn’t answer, he adds, “We come to the Market every Midsummer. I’ll ensure you have a stall from which to vend your wares.”

It’s… He’s being sokind, yet every gentle word tangles Laurel up into a tighter ball, strings upon strings of stressors wrapping around his smoking hot core. He’d rather not explode, but with every new band that encircles him, the more likely it seems.

Beacon opens his mouth, probably to make another attempt at reassurance that won’t assuage Laurel’s true fear, so Laurel blurts, “Do you think you could ever like me?”

The crackle of a jay’s call splits the silence that stretches the space between them. Laurel curls his toes, digging them into the soft sandy creek bottom.

Expression worryingly neutral, Beacon steps forward. He pauses. Then, squaring his shoulders with determination, he eats up the ground between them with long strides. The toes of his ghillie brogues touch the water. He plunges in, the sputtering creek splashing over the thick soles. Beacon’s steps are not as delicate as Laurel’s barefoot tip-toeing, which means he’s there in seconds, gently resting a rough hand against Laurel’s arm. His calluses—much more prominent than Laurel’s own—catch the sheer fabric of Laurel’s tunic.

“You don’t need to worry about me liking you,” Beacon says.

Then he firms his grip, holding Laurel in place so he can dip to press his chapped lips to Laurel’s.

The contact only lasts a second before Beacon retreats, brow furrowed. He looks just as confused as Laurel feels. Maybe not for the same reason because all Laurel can think to say is: