Page 19 of Tossing the Caber

It’s fine.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’sfine.

That’s what Laurel tells himself, over and over and over again, eyes closed during the ride in hopes of avoiding the worst of the nausea.

The rickshaw jerks to a stop. Rodney hops out immediately to pay the driver and storms off, not offering to help Laurel climb to the dusty road without dirtying his clothes. Laurel wouldn’t have wanted his assistance anyway.

Heaving his last sigh, Laurel gathers the long train of lace and exits the rickshaw, thanking the driver before he pulls off to find another rider.

A gust of wind immediately destroys Laurel’s carefully brushed hair, which he left loose with only a few pink flowers pinned beside his ear. It yanks the pin free, sending the flowers tumbling down to the road.

Before they can blow hopelessly far, someone with a quick hand snags them from mid-air. Laurel lifts his gaze to thank the person, only for his mouth to go bone dry, and his outstretched arm to fall limply by his side.

“Beacon,” he says, and the wind steals his voice, too.

But Beacon dips his head, the white and blue flowers woven in a crown through his red hair pinned much more securely than Laurel’s own. “Good morning, Laurel,” he replies, equally hushed.

“I hope you slept well,” Laurel says around a numb tongue. His face flushes, hot from embarrassment at the foolish statement. It’s just that he doesn’t know what else to say to the sturdy, handsome man but a few paces away.

Beacon works his jaw but says nothing, not to affirm or deny, not to return the nicety. He clears his throat, the protruding knot working underneath his trimmed stubble when he swallows.

“May I?” Laurel asks, gesturing to the flowers Beacon is crushing in his grasp.

Lips parting, Beacon looks between Laurel and the modest pin as if he hadn’t realized he was still holding it. He nods with a fraction of his usual poise, then immediately shakes his head. “Allow me,” he says, or more mouths, breath barelycarrying the words. They’re less important than what he does next.

Beacon steps forward, hesitating only long enough to ensure Laurel doesn’t dodge, and clumsily pins the flowers into his hair. He positions them oddly and lopsided, but adjusting them is the last thing on Laurel’s mind with his future husband within reach.

The kilt and vest Beacon wears today are even more elaborate than the formal ensemble he wore the day of the Emberleigh dance. Instead of bold colors, they’re muted, the seams lined with gold embroidery. A similarly embroidered sash has been slung over one shoulder, stretched diagonally to the opposite hip. Rather than wool socks and thick-soled ghillie brogue boots, Beacon wears modest deerskin shoes that lace up to his knees.

Laurel means to thank him, but only manages to caress the poorly pinned, wilted sprig, a few petals coming off in his hand. His eyes remain locked with Beacon’s hazel ones.

“Boys?”

Both of them jolt, turning toward Maura Sure-of-Foot as one. She and Donlan are dressed finely without being ostentatious, contrasting with Rodney, who stands at a distance in plain garb, overshadowed by his stormy expression.

Maura smiles. “Ready?”

No, Laurel almost says.Yes, he almost follows up with, but he doesn’t manage either. In the end, all he produces is a soft hum of acknowledgement as he offers his hand to Beacon, praying to all the stars in Dun Steorra that his soon-to-be husband accepts.

Chapter Seven

Beacon

It’s done. After years of stonewalling, Beacon has finally been married off…

And,stars, is he conflicted about it.

Laurel is beautiful. Stunning. Incandescent—and that’s where Beacon’s ability to use words ends, but he still finds it insufficient. The problem is, he hasn’t been able to force any of those words out of his face and into Laurel’s long, elegant ears.

Now, Beacon’s new husband is standing on the lawn in a cloud of Beacon’s teammates, the Dun Steorran athletes putting every inch of their big dumb meat-heads to use for bewildering him. Laurel thanks and thanks each member as they repeat themselves, handling each friendly jostle with grace, even when Raibull accidentally steps on the edge of his lace drape, grinding it into the muddy grass. Likewise, Beacon grinds his teeth, wanting to slap the oaf upside his aforementioned big dumb meat-head.

His father interrupts his glaring to shove a cider in his face. His mother appears shortly after to inform him that the mug of cider is not hiding the fact that he’s still glaring, and he ought to consider appearances for once. Laurel’s father… is nowhere to be seen. That’s a good thing.

When Beacon looks back at his gaggle of teammates, Laurel has disappeared.

An odd, frantic sensation rises in Beacon’s chest as he scans the field for his husband. The magic duels are taking place a fair distance away, and magic barriers are erected to protect spectators, but the irrationalwhat if?fills Beacon with apprehension. As an athlete who lugs around heavy objects all day, he knows how easily something can go wrong, even with precautions.

It’s ridiculous how quickly Beacon’s breath leaves him when he sees Laurel walking farther away from the field, into the shade of a willow tree. He’s partially obscured by the draping branches, but Beacon can make out another man speaking with him. The fellow is large, obsidian-haired, and looks just as stiff and shy as Laurel does.