Page 91 of Heart of Winter
Erik smirked. “Wait until you see the crown.” His expression shifted, then. Became almost pleading. In a much lower, and less steady voice, he said, “Come here, Oliver,” and offered his hand.
Oliver took an unsteady breath, and crossed the room. It was both the easiest and hardest thing he’d ever done, reaching to take the hand held out to him. Easy because it was Erik, and his own palm knew those calluses, and that warm skin, and because he wanted this, and so much more. Hard because, in this moment, the hand he took belonged to a king, and Oliver was about to go down to a feast at his side.
Erik’s fingers closed tightly around his own, and he used the grip to tow him in close, so they stood face-to-face. Close enough to smell the oils in Erik’s hair. Close enough to watch his eyes dilate, and to hear his breath catch, faintly, in his throat.
He’s nervous too, Magnus had said.
Erik opened his other hand, revealing silver and sapphire beads. It was expected – Revna had picked them out in front of him – but the sight of them in Erik’s hand ignited a sweet ache in Oliver’s chest.
Erik wet his lips, nerves plain on his face, and said, very formally, “You may refuse, of course, but it would please me greatly if you would wear these. If you would allow me to braid them into your hair.”
Fever-weak, acutely aware of the broad thumb sweeping little circles across the back of his hand, Oliver said, “Is my hair long enough for that?”
Erik studied him critically – heatedly. “Yes, I think so.”
Oliver nodded. “Then – yes. You may. I would like that.”
Erik’s grin in response was blinding. He released Oliver’s hand so that he could cup his face, thumb sweeping softly across his cheek, now. Oliver leaned into the touch before he could catch himself – and then realized that he didn’t need to. That it was okay. They were here alone, and Erik wanted to touch him as badly as he wanted to be touched. That he could, perhaps, touch in return.
He reached out, fingers trembling, and traced an intricate line of stitching down the front of Erik’s tunic; even through layers of cloth, he could feel the hardness of the muscles that lay beneath.
“Revna did well choosing for you,” Erik murmured, voice a low rumble. He thumbed at the corner of Oliver’s mouth. “You look…”
“Like I’m playing dress up?”
“Perfect.”
Oliver groaned and chuckled at once. “You shouldn’t flatter me, I’ll take it to heart.”
“Do so. Come. Sit here.”
There was a chair by the fire, and, in front of it, a low stool. Oliver sat, his back to the king, shivering a little in glad anticipation.
Erik started by combing his hair back with his fingers, learning the texture, following the spring of the curls. “Hm. Oil, I think. A little.”
“I’ll leave all the particulars up to you,” Oliver said. “I don’t know a thing about braiding.”
“Don’t worry, you’re in capable hands,” Erik said, with a soft chuckle.
“I never doubted it.”
The fingers retreated, and when they returned, Oliver felt the tickle of the oil against his scalp, and smelled the strong, pinewood aroma that he’d come to associate with Erik. A bit more combing, and then a not-unpleasant tightness against his scalp as a braid was begun just above his ear.
Oliver found that having his hair played with left him relaxed and faintly aroused. His eyelids fell to half-mast, and all the tension bled out of his muscles. He basked in the heat of the fire, and Erik’s sure touch. If asked, he would have said he didn’t like being fussed over, but that was because he never had been. The crackle of the fire, and Erik’s occasional, considering hum smoothed across him as a balm he hadn’t known he needed.
It seemed to go on for a long time, but not nearly long enough. Erik’s fingers settled at his throat, faintly slick with oil, warm and welcome as he traced over Oliver’s steady pulse, an easy sort of affection. “That should do it,” he said, sounding satisfied. “Do you want to see?”
“Yes.”
A mirror hung on the wall opposite, above a table loaded with bottles and decanters. Oliver walked to it, keenly aware of Erik’s solid, warm presence at his back. It was Erik he looked at first, when he came face-to-face with his reflection: tall and strong, in his glittering gems and black fur, his large hand settled in a proprietary way on Oliver’s shoulder. He allowed himself the wild thought that they looked good together; that his own slim fairness offset Erik’s warrior grace.
Then Erik reached to touch one of the braids he’d woven into Oliver’s hair, and he looked there.
There were five: three behind one ear, two behind the other, each set with silver and sapphire beads with ornate runic carvings on their oblong surfaces. They were short, dancing wildly as he turned his head, the flash of the metal and gems eye-catching.
“Oh,” he said. It was all he could say.
Erik reached with his free hand to grip one lightly between thumb and forefinger, stroking along the bead, and the tiny runes inscribed there. His smile was one of satisfaction. The way he fingered his handiwork left Oliver’s cheeks warm.
