As Tohr took off, jogging down the grand staircase, Qhuinn wanted to go on a cursing spree: a whole evening to himself. Yay.
Nothing like having a date night with a depressive.
Hell, maybe what he should do is go up to the movie theater, throw on some hormone-replacement-therapy patches, and cheer himself up by watching The Sound of Music and painting his toenails.
Maybe Steel Magnolias…Like Water for Coconuts.
Or was that Chocolate, he wondered.
Then again, maybe he could just shoot himself in the head.
Either would work.
Blay’s family’s safe house was out in the countryside, surrounded by snow-covered fields that undulated gently to forested boundaries. Made of cream-colored river stone, the manor wasn’t grand, but rather cozy, with low-beamed ceilings, plenty of fireplaces that were always lit in the cold weather, and a state-of-the-art kitchen that was the only modern thing on the property.
In which his mom cooked positive ambrosia.
As he and his father emerged from the study, his mother looked over from her eight-burner stove. Her eyes were wide and worried as she stirred the cheese she was melting in a copper double boiler.
Not wanting to make a big deal out of the huge deal that had just gone down in that book-lined room, Blay flashed a discreet thumbs-up at her and took a seat at the rough oak table in the alcove.
His mother put her hand over her mouth and closed her lids, still stirring even as the emotions welled.
“Hey, hey,” his father said as he came up to his shellan. “Shhhhh…”
Turning her to him, he wrapped his arms around his mate and held her close. Even as she kept up with that stirring.
“It’s okay.” He kissed her head. “Hey, it’s all right.”
His father’s stare drifted over, and Blay had to blink repeatedly as their eyes met. Then he had to shield his watery eyes.
“People! For the Virgin Scribe’s sake!” The older male sniffled himself. “My beautiful, healthy, smart, priceless son is gay—this is nothing to mourn!”
Someone started laughing. Blay joined in.
“It’s not like somebody died.” His father tilted his mother’s chin up and smiled into her face. “Right?”
“I’m just so glad it’s out and everyone’s together,” his mother said.
The male recoiled as if any other outcome was unfathomable to him. “Our family is strong—don’t you know this, my love? But more to the point, this is no challenge. This is no tragedy.”
God, his parents were the best.
“Come here.” His dad beckoned. “Blay, come over here.”
Blay got up and went across. As his parents wrapped their arms around him, he took a deep breath and became the child he had once been a lifetime ago: His father’s aftershave smelled the same, and his mother’s shampoo still reminded him of a summer night, and the scent of the baking lasagna in the oven teed off his hungry stomach.
Just as it always had.
Time truly was relative, he thought. Even though he was taller and broader, and so many things had happened, this unit—these two people—were his foundation, his steady rock, his never perfect but never failing standard. And as he stood in the lee of their familiar, loving arms, he was able to breathe away every bit of the tension he’d felt.
It had been hard to tell his father, to find the words, to break through the “safety” that came with not running the risk of having to recast his opinion of the male who had raised him and loved him as no other had. If the guy had not supported him, if he’d chosen the glymera’s value system over the authentic him? Blay would have been forced to view someone he loved in a totally different light.
But that hadn’t happened. And now? He felt like he’d jumped off a building…and landed on Wonder Bread, safe and sound: The biggest test yet of their family structure had not just been passed, but completely triumphed over.
When they pulled apart from the huddle, his father put his hand on Blay’s face. “Always my son. And I am always proud to call you my son.”
As the guy dropped his arm, the signet ring on his hand caught the glow from the overhead lighting, the gold flashing yellow. The pattern that had been stamped into the precious metal was exactly what was on Blay’s ring—and as he traced the familiar lines, he recognized that the glymera had it so wrong. All those crests were supposed to be the symbols of this space now, of the bonds that strengthened and bettered people’s intertwined lives, of the commitments that ran from mother to father, father to son, mother to young.
But as was so often the case with the aristocracy, the value was misplaced, being based on the gold and the etchings, not the people. The glymera cared what things looked like, over what was: As long as shit appeared pretty on the outside, you could have half-dead or wholly depraved going on underneath and they’d still be cool with it.
As far as Blay was concerned? The communion was the thing.
“I think the lasagna’s ready,” his mother said as she kissed them both. “Why don’t you two set the table?”
Nice and normal. Blissfully so.
As Blay and his dad moved around the kitchen, pulling out silverware and plates and cloth napkins in shades of red and green, Blay felt a little trippy. In fact, there was a total high associated with having laid it all on the line and finding out, on the far side, that everything you had hoped for was in fact what you had.
And yet, when he sat down a little later, he felt the emptiness that had been riding him return, sure as if he had stepped briefly into a warm house, but had had to leave and go back out into the cold.
“Blay?”
He shook himself and reached forward to accept the plate full of home-cooked loveliness that his mother was extending to him. “Oh, this looks amazing.”
“Best lasagna on the planet,” his father said, as he unfolded his napkin and pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “Outside piece for me, please.”
“As if I don’t know you like the crunchy parts.” Blay smiled at his parents as his mom used a spatula to get out one of the corner pieces. “Two?”
“Yes, please.” His father’s eyes were riveted on the crockery pan. “Oh, that’s perfect.”
For a while, there were no sounds except for polite eating.
“So tell us, how are things at the mansion?” his mother asked, after she sipped her water. “Anything exciting happening?”
Blay exhaled. “Qhuinn was inducted into the Brotherhood.”
Cue the dropped jaws.
“What an honor,” his father breathed.
“He deserves it, doesn’t he?” Blay’s mother shook her head, her red hair catching the light. “You’ve always said he’s a great fighter. And I know things have been so hard for him—like I told you the other night, that boy has been breaking my heart since the first moment I met him.”
Makes two of us, Blay thought. “He’s having a young, too.”
Okay, his father actually dropped his fork and had to cough it out.
His mother reached over and clapped the guy on the back. “With whom?”
“A Chosen.”
Total silence. Until his mother whispered, “Well, that’s a lot.”
And to think he’d kept the real drama to himself.
God, that fight they’d had down in the training center. He’d replayed it over and over again, going over every word that had been thrown out, every accusation, every denial. He hated some of the things he’d said, but he stood by the point he’d been trying to make.
Man, his delivery could have used work, though. He truly regretted that part.