Page 59 of Honeythorn
To Milan’s slight surprise, they really did. Or, at least, he did. By the time they arrived back at the manor, it was late, and Milan was happily sore after all that dancing.
Melissa took away their coats and left them alone in the entry hall. The sconces were dimmed, offering more shadow than light. It reminded Milan of the fantasy books he had taken to reading about odd worlds filled with magic. He couldn’t seem to move, standing there so close to Raphael.
“I had a lovely evening,” Milan said softly.
“So did I.”
To Milan’s shock, Raphael took his hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing lightly. A shudder went through him. How a simple touch could ignite such heat, Milan couldn’t comprehend, but he couldn’t deny it, either.
Raphael did not let his hand go as they walked to Milan’s room. Even when they prepared separately for bed there was a tension in the air that was filled with a strange pleasure.
When they finally blew out the candles, in bed with their hands touching, Milan had the sense that, not even if their bodies were pressed together—and just the thought of that made him blush—the moment could not have been more intimate, for even the distance between them brought them together.
“Good night, Husband,” Milan said softly. He heard Raphael shift closer until he could feel his warmth.
“Good night.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was amazing, how many little details time revealed about a person when they allowed you to see them.
Milan had already known about Raphael’s fondness for animals, but he was sweet to all of them—not only the pigs but doting on the horses and even whistling at birds sometimes. Milan learnt how Raphael had the habit of tapping the front of his shoe on the floor at least twice when he entered the manor, as if shaking mud from the sole even when there was none. About Raphael’s fondness for the smell of cedar burning, or how he liked to rub something soft, like fur, when he was deep in thought.
Then there was the day that Milan learnt about Raphael’s love of poetry. And not just any poetry—romantic poetry.
At least it explained the vast collection of it in the library.
“What do you like about it?” Milan asked the day he caught Raphael reading some and made him confess.
Raphael shrugged. “Despite what happened with my father, my parents loved each other very much. I have early childhood memories about how sweetly they would talk to each other, how caring they were. It was my first example of love—that’s how I thought it would be. When my father died…when the war took his mind, it was a tragedy not only for him but for my mother. For their love, or what it could have been if the war hadn’t happened. It made me want that love all the more, knowing it could slip away at any moment.”
“That’s quite a brave feeling to have. Someone else could have shied away from the idea of love, having witnessed what its loss could do.”
Raphael shook his head. “It was worth it. That was all I knew. Despite how it ended, their lives were richer for having experienced it.”
“And that’s why you like poetry? For having seen love and loss?”
“Yes. I like…how soft the words can make it seem, or how ardent. Something growing, or flowing, or eating you away. When I was young and foolish, I liked the idea of my soul being taken over by this feeling. Of course, once it happened…”
Milan felt a desperate hurt rip through him. “That was not love. To truly love is to want to make another person feel loved—it is not malicious and selfish. That was not love.”
Raphael looked at him steadily from the stuffed chair he sat upon.
“Will you read me a poem? Your favourite?” Milan asked quietly. There was a pause.
“All right.”
Milan watched him get a book from one of the shelves, not even having to search for it. Raphael sat down again, flipping the pages tenderly before stopping.
He took a deep breath and with that low, soothing voice, started reading about love.
He read about love as if it were nature. As if it were a force that you would never want to escape. As if it were the mud and the trees and the wind and the moonlight that is cast down upon your naked body. As if it were the air you breathe and the blood that rises inside you. As if it were something beautiful, and giving, and all-encompassing. A catharsis, like screaming and crying and finally acknowledging your suffering.
Something intimate. Something burning. Something warm.
Milan could tell by the sound of Raphael’s voice that these were worlds he had believed in completely but doubted now, even as they moved him.
Milan wished desperately at that moment to have the chance to make Raphael read them with conviction once again.
