Those Words I Dread (Tales of the Tuath Dé #1)

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It was surprisingly easy to get Ciaran back to the apartment without questions, once Trent remembered that passers-by couldn’t see him. He probably looked a bit strange walking with his arms cradling air, and the taxi driver gave him an odd look as he hefted nothing into the seat beside him, but it was better than trying to explain the unconscious man whose blood was the wrong color. He let Ciaran rest against him the entire drive home and carried him up his building’s steps to the lobby, holding the smaller man against his chest and brushing aside the doorman’s probing questions. His injured arm was throbbing painfully by the time he reached his apartment door, but he held the other man tight until he could lay him on his bed.

The cut on Ciaran’s upper arm oozed black blood into the sheets, and Trent could already see the infection spreading like cracked glass around the edges of the wound. He put a hand to Ciaran’s sweat-covered forehead, feeling his heated skin, and he rushed to fetch a cool, damp cloth from the bathroom. He laid it across Ciaran’s brow and set about cleaning the wound as well as he could, wiping the blood from his skin with a gentle touch. He hadn’t seemed this bad when he first arrived—but then, the old injury on his stomach hadn’t fully healed, and now here he was injured again by the same weapon. What had he said it was, iron? Whatever the hunter had cut him with, it definitely didn’t agree with him.

While Ciaran slept, Trent cleaned and bandaged his own wound, which hurt but wasn’t nearly as dangerous. Hopefully, whatever the fairy had done to knock the hunter out would stick, and the cops would have an easy time collecting him. Firing the gun had been the easiest way Trent could think of to get the cops after the hunter without actually involving himself and having to try to explain Ciaran. A jail cell would be enough to get him off their backs until—until Ciaran left. Trent finished the thought with a slight frown.

It was never a question whether or not the fairy would leave. He supposed it would be longer now that he was even worse off than before, but he would still leave. As soon as Trent asked him for a favor, he had said.

Trent shook his head and took the cloth from Ciaran’s brow, rinsing it in the bathroom sink and replacing it once it was cool again. He watched the fairy take a few uneven breaths, and then he settled beside him on the bed, interlacing their fingers as he shut his eyes on the pretense of being woken up if Ciaran moved.

The sound of the front door closing woke him before Ciaran did. Trent sat up in the bed, hissing a soft curse as he put weight on his arm, and he hurried to the bedroom door just in time to see his father enter the living room. In a panic, he stepped out and slammed the bedroom door behind him, holding the door knob behind his back as though he could hide his secret by hiding the door.

Mr. Fa looked at him curiously, his gaze immediately dropping to the bandage on his forearm. “What happened there?”

“Nothing. It’s not serious. I went to the store, and…a bike messenger clipped me. It’s fine.”

His father tutted at him, walking over to pick up his wrist and inspect the bandage. “You should see a doctor.”

“It’s really not that bad. I’m fine.” He pulled his arm away and moved into the kitchen in an attempt to get his father away from the bedroom door. At least Ciaran was sleeping, and thus at least less likely than usual to make trouble .

“You don’t look fine,” Mr. Fa said, watching Trent as he filled a glass of water from the tap. “You’re a mess. Aiya, were you sleeping at this hour? You need a better schedule.”

Trent drained his glass and set it on the counter without turning to look at his father. The day had been too long for him to care what his father thought about how much he slept.

“Well, you should get yourself cleaned up,” Mr. Fa went on, not seeming to notice that he was being ignored. “I’ve made us reservations for dinner.”

“I really don’t feel like dinner right now, fu chan.”

His father clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I thought you said you were fine? Hurry up and get ready. Are you sure Ms. Hickey can’t join us?”

“No, she can’t,” Trent said softly, his hands slowly tightening into fists on the kitchen counter.

“She can’t have classes this late. You should take her out more often, even if it is with your father—I’ll need to get to know her better.”

Trent wanted to shout at him. He wanted to argue, to tell him the truth—about himself, about Ciaran, about everything. He couldn’t. But he wanted to.

“Son,” Mr. Fa started behind him, and Trent heard his footsteps on the tile floor as the older man approached him. “I know we have had…troubles. But you have a nice place to live, you go to a good university…and now that you have decided to give up this lifestyle—”

“Lifestyle,” Trent echoed, finally looking up into his father’s face. He almost laughed. “You have…no idea what it’s been like for me since that day.” He turned to face the older man, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. “Back then, I thought…I thought you would be upset that I brought someone home. I thought that when I told you the truth, it would be a shock, but that you—” He paused, his confidence wavering in the face of his father’s stare. “That you would understand.”

“Son, there are simply certain things that are not—”

“I know,” he cut him off. “Things that aren’t suitable for a family like ours. You told me.” Trent hesitated, a weight in his chest that he hadn’t felt in some time. He had spent so long avoiding this very conversation, dodging questions, changing the subject. But he could remember Ciaran’s green eyes looking into his, his soft voice and the warmth of his hands on his face. There is nothing wrong with you . “It’s not a lifestyle , ba ba. I can’t just…turn it off. It’s who I am.”

His father’s brow furrowed as he frowned. “But, Ms. Hickey—”

“She isn’t real!” Trent snapped, and he let out a frustrated sigh. He couldn’t tell the truth, but he couldn’t listen to one more relieved comment about his imaginary girlfriend, either. “She’s just…a friend. She thought she was helping by pretending to be my girlfriend while you were here.”

Mr. Fa stared silently for a moment, mouth slightly open in disbelief, and then his face twisted into a scowl. “You lied to me.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” Trent growled. “You want me to tell you that I’m straight, and I’m—”

“Now that’s enough,” his father cut in, taking a step forward and lifting a threatening finger to his son’s face. “This has gone too far, Trent. You were young before, and I was willing to overlook some—indiscretions. But you’re a man now, and soon you’ll have a man’s responsibilities.”

“I’m doing what you want,” Trent answered, exhaustion in his voice. “I go to class, I study, I don’t get into trouble. I’ve always been top of my class. I don’t drink, I don’t party, I don’t stay out all night. What else do you want me to do? I’m doing everything I can—”

“Do you understand that everything you have is because of me?” Mr. Fa gestured around the apartment. “This place and everything in it. Those clothes you’re wearing. The tuition for that school you go to. I have given you everything, and all I’ve asked in return is that you make me proud. Do well in school. Get a respectable job. Have a family. This is what I want for you; do you understand that?”

Trent couldn’t contain his scoff. “You’re saying I’m ungrateful?”

“I’m saying you have responsibilities to this family!”

Trent’s shoulders fell slightly, and he took a step back from his father and shook his head. “Don’t worry, fu chan. I’ve known for a long time that being your son comes with strings.”

Mr. Fa cleared his throat as if to distract from his outburst, and he checked his watch. “If you aren’t coming to dinner, I’m going to meet some coworkers. I’ll get to the airport on my own.” He turned and disappeared into the guest bedroom, returning a minute later with his small suitcase. He moved to the front door and paused in the hall, turning to look across the kitchen at his son. “You need to think very carefully about your future, and how much this means to you. The next time we talk, I will expect you to have made a decision.”

As Mr. Fa turned the door knob and left the apartment, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, Trent slumped back against the kitchen counter. He supported himself with his hands and stared down at the floor with an empty feeling in his chest. His father was saying that his financial assistance wasn’t a certainty. That his love was conditional. Trent knew that—he had known it for a while—but to hear it out loud was a different matter. His choices were to tell the truth and be cast out onto the street, or to live the life his father wanted for him, dead or screaming on the inside.

A quiet creaking from the bedroom pulled him from his thoughts, and he stepped over to the door to find Ciaran sat up on his elbows in the bed with a pensive, frowning look on his face.

“You should be sleeping,” Trent said. The fairy only looked up at him with a furrowed brow.

“So that’s really how it is, eh? With your da.”

“It’s not your problem.” He sat at the edge of the bed and pushed Ciaran down by his shoulder, testing his forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re still feverish. Go back to sleep. I’ll go get you some more food.”

Ciaran gripped the younger man’s hand before he could pull it away, squeezing it tightly and refusing to let go. “I came for you,” he said in a low voice. “I bled for you, and I spared that bastard’s life for you. So don’t tell me what’s my problem.”

Trent paused, an uncomfortable clenching feeling in his chest. “I don’t want your sympathy,” he said rather than acknowledging it, and he tried to pull his hand from Ciaran’s grasp. “I didn’t ask you to do those things—I didn’t ask you to come here in the first place.”

“As ucht Dé, you are a spiteful thing,” the fairy grumbled. “I’m here whether you want me or not.”

“I don’t want you here!” Trent snapped, his resolve weakening under the other man’s patient stare. His throat felt tight from holding in the flood of shouting that threatened to escape him. When he felt Ciaran’s fingers squeeze his, just slightly, he let out his held breath in a sigh and sank forward until his forehead touched the fairy’s chest. “I don’t want any of this,” he said weakly.

Ciaran put a hand to the back of Trent’s head, letting him take as many slow, steadying breaths as he needed. When he calmed down, Ciaran let him sit up, but he kept a hand on the side of his face to keep him close. “It’s not as bad as all that, you know,” he said softly.

“How can I make this choice? I lie, or I…I lose everything.”

“Ask me to fix it,” the fairy said, and Trent looked down at him without answering. Ciaran’s thumb brushed his cheek, threatening to break what little composure he had left. “Ask me to fix it,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” Trent answered, his voice strained. “I won’t solve my problem by becoming him. He wants to change me, and I…want to be better than that.” He reluctantly removed Ciaran’s hand from his face, pulling away from him as he got to his feet. “I’m going to get some food. I’ll…I’ll be back in a minute.” When Ciaran opened his mouth to speak, Trent held up a hand. “Don’t. I…need to think about this. About everything.”

He left the fairy alone in the bedroom and hurried out of the apartment, fighting the urge to hold his own stomach as he walked out onto the street. He didn’t want to admit the real choice he was making. It wasn’t between a show wife and a nebulous, potential future love. It wasn’t even between a wife and being alone. A week ago, he would have said the answer was easy. He would be alone until he couldn’t put his parents off anymore, and then he would give in, find a woman he didn’t hate too much, and marry her. Force himself to be with her, have a child or two. He would have been the ideal son, and his parents would have been proud. Even though he had accepted this future for himself, now the thought of it turned his stomach. He wasn’t choosing between pretending and living on the street.

He was choosing between pretending and Ciaran.

Trent stopped walking, letting the other people on the sidewalk swerve to avoid him. As much as Ciaran irritated him—he was sarcastic, messy, demanding—he had never felt at ease around someone the way he did with him. People in general were boring, superficial, and only occupied with the pointless minutiae of their own lives. Trent never enjoyed talking to people, and he absolutely despised the mindless chit chat that seemed to be a necessary part of social interaction. But Ciaran sat beside him without speaking, and neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

Ciaran made him laugh, and he was patient with him when he acted like a petulant child. He wasn’t human, and it was absolutely a terrible idea for Trent to get attached to him. He barely knew the first thing about what Ciaran even was, or what it would mean for them to be… together . But he’d never felt his heart race just from being near to someone, or wanted so badly to touch them. He’d never seen that soft look in anyone else’s eyes, or that faint smile on anyone else’s lips. Without Ciaran, he never would have had the courage to stand up to his father as much as he had. Even as socially stunted as he was, Trent could do the math. He loved him. He loved him, and the realization was terrifying.

Trent was brought back to reality by someone bumping into his shoulder as they walked past, and he muttered a quick apology as he resumed his journey toward the grocery store. He walked in a daze, his heart loud and too fast in his ears. Love? Love had never entered into any scenario he’d imagined for his future.

What would he say? Should he say anything? How could he? Ciaran was apparently four thousand years old and definitely well acquainted with relationships of all kinds. What would he possibly say if Trent confessed how he felt? Even the thought of saying something so embarrassing made him queasy. Ciaran would laugh at him, definitely. Even if they did get along, what could someone like Ciaran possibly feel for him outside of a passing interest?

He filled his grocery basket with whole milk, cream, sweet bread, and cakes, cookies, and muffins of all kinds. He paused with his hand on a box of mint cookies and gripped them too tightly, his thoughts seeming to go faster than he could keep up with. He had always thought that finding someone he could stand to live with would be enough of a challenge. Love was a completely foreign word to him. What were you supposed to do when you loved someone? What did you say to them? How did you treat them? Most importantly, what if they didn’t feel the same way?

Trent dropped the box of cookies into his basket and made his way to the checkout, barely making eye contact with the clerk as he paid for his groceries. The bags seemed heavier than they should be in his hands as he walked back to his building. At the door to his apartment, he hesitated, his heart thumping in his chest so loudly he was sure other people could hear it. There were two possible outcomes. Either Ciaran felt the same way, and the choice would be easier, or he didn’t—and everything would go back to the way it was. Ciaran would get well, he would leave, and Trent would end up doing what his father wanted. With that at stake—he had to know what the fairy’s answer would be. He would have to say something. He just needed time to figure out what that something would be.

He opened the door and set his bags on the kitchen counter before peeking into the bedroom. Ciaran was fast asleep, one arm draped over his stomach. Trent let out a sigh of relief. He couldn’t talk to him yet. He needed more time. He put the groceries away as quietly as he could, then lingered uncertainly near the bedroom door. He wanted to go in only a little bit more than he wanted to shut the door and never have to look at Ciaran again. It was too big a gamble. The fairy was injured right now, anyway—this was no time to be having serious discussions. He would let him rest.

Trent pulled the bedroom door closed without actually clicking it shut, and he settled on the sofa in the quiet living room, the full weight of the day finally hitting his shoulders. Just that morning, Ciaran had cornered him in the shower—a memory he quickly pushed to the back of his thoughts—and then in the same day, he had been kidnapped and subsequently rescued by fairy bullshit, then told his father that yes, unfortunately, he was still gay. Oh, and he had also realized that he was in love with the fairy currently asleep in his bed. Somehow, that last one still seemed the most problematic.