moonshower

moonshower.

"What do you wait for?"

It's a question Leigh gets asked, over and over and over again. Seasons come and go, the people around him growing older--settling down, starting families, making homes. A close friend gets married; Leigh is chosen as their wreathholder, their vowsmith. He bears witness to the couple's union all smiles and good cheer, regaling their guests with stories of times past.

A number of people ask after him. The little old lady two streets away who runs a forgey Leigh frequents. The mischievous elven librarian, who he'd befriended upon his very first visit to the sprawling oakwood reserve. Even the messenger boys who make their rounds daily have made a game out of it.

"Alone today, Mr. Leigh?" they'd holler, and upon his usual response, money exchanges hands and Leigh gets more than a few reproachful glances.

Perhaps it is strange for beings like them--so tied up in love--to lead a solitary life, but Leigh's grown accustomed to it. As a fledgling, long before the age anyone would entertain notions of love and eternity, he'd learned the weight of loneliness. An empty home, bereft of fairy-blue light. It's a familiar sight. At least nowadays, Leigh's empty home is one of his own choosing. His sanctuary, his safe haven.

The door clicks open.

Leigh shrugs off his satchel, ready to hang it upon his rosewood holder. Mid-step, his foot freezes over the door's threshhold.

There's been a shift of some sort. A change in the air, indetectable to mortal creatures.

But Leigh is a fae, and he understands enough. He lets his bag fall to the floor and follows the traces of the disturbance. He passes through the foyer, through the parlor, through the kitchen--and finally, at the entrance to his garden, he sees the vague silhouette of something unfamiliar.

He waves his hands. The garden gate swings open.

Twilight has colored his garden shades of indigo and violet. Warm, amber light trickles down below from atop the white-stone rose trellis. In the dimness of the evening, it's hard to make out the shape of his flowers, much less the shadowy figure hunched over on his lawn.

"Hello?" Leigh calls tentatively, drawing closer. His footsteps crunch against gravel and soil.

With each step he takes, Leigh sees more and understands less.

Long hair, sprawled across the grass. (Pink-red, something insists in his mind. Like the sky at daybreak, like the color of the roses we grow.)

A lithe figure, hands (soft, the voice insists) digging into the dirt in an attempt to prop themself up.

A pretty (familiar) voice, grumbling words at a volume surely not meant for others' ears.

"Hello?" Leigh repeats, and the figure stiffens at the sound of his voice.

The first thing Leigh notices are his eyes. (Blue, a deep blue, like when morning light hits the mountain-lake)

"Oh," the figure breathes, tremulous, inscrutable emotions shimmering in those cerulean depths. There's a pause in which Leigh forgets how to speak, how to think.

Finally, the other smiles. Tears brim his eyes.

"I've been waiting," he says, his voice sounding simultaneously heavy and so, so very light.

Leigh has no time to parse the meaning of such words. Abruptly, the figure collapses, his body going slack. Leigh moves without thinking, reaching for him and cradling him in his arms.

It makes no logical sense. Leigh's never met this person in his life.

And yet, and yet...

(Part of him wanted to reply, "Me too.")

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.

.

The stranger sleeps for several days straight.

In other news, half the town thinks Leigh's finally found a lover. Instead of lingering at the tapestry halls as he usually does, he's begun hurrying home immediately after his shifts, hoping--

(Hoping? For what?)

--unwilling to let the stranger wake up to an empty household and what must surely be an abundance of questions. Leigh had realized several things upon taking the stranger in and settling him down in the guest bedroom.

One: the stranger is most certainly a mortal. A beautiful, stunning mortal with whom Leigh feels a sense of kinship he can't explain...but a mortal, nonetheless.

(Fae enclavements are hidden for a reason. Mortals can be dangerous. Sure, there’s the blonde writer down the street and the woman his friend married, but there are Proper Procedures to go through before bringing outsiders into their homes. And yet. Leigh hasn’t even reported the stranger yet--unfathomably wanting to keep the mortal by his side.)

Two: the stranger wears a crystal necklace that strangely resembles Leigh's own. Sharing a similar taste in jewelry normally wouldn't be a concern, but Leigh's necklace had been specifically gifted to him by a gifted prophet who assured him it would lead him to his destiny. He's worn it for decades, out of habit if nothing else.

(Destiny is nice. It's a word he's drawn towards, a word everyone secretly yearns for. But surely Leigh--observant, take-a-backseat, unimportant Leigh--wouldn't have his future written in the stars.)

Three: the stranger does, in fact, have red-pink hair.

(It's even prettier in the daylight.)

Leigh is changing the bedside airer when the stranger stirs. He almost drops his entire bag of fairy dust, just barely catching himself in the nick of time.

“You--” and the stranger’s voice is croaky, curbed by the throes of sleep, “--aren’t trying to kill me with that, are you?”

Despite himself, Leigh laughs.

“Not at all,” he says, setting the bag on the table. “It’s supposed to grant those who breathe it good dreams.”

Deciding to forgo all subtlety, Leigh waves a hand, summoning a glass of water from the kitchen. He offers it towards his guest, and after a moment of contemplation, the redhead sits up and takes it.

“Show off,” his guest says, and there’s a playful edge to his voice. Teasing, Leigh thinks.

But they hardly know each other (even though every bone in Leigh’s body screams otherwise), and he can’t understand why the guest would be so--casual? Where were the questions and confusion?

There are polite ways of inquiring about this. Leigh can speak well when he wants to, has never lacked for words even when overwhelmingly surrounded by others. Something about this stranger throws him off his game.

“Do I know you?” Leigh blurts out with all the delicacy of a rampaging orc. His eyes round, meeting his guest’s. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times. Finally, he manages a stiff: “Something about you felt familiar.”

It’s hardly a save, but at least he won’t sound like a crazy person.

His guest stares at him.

“Maybe we’ve met before,” he says, whimsy. “Perhaps in a dream.”

(He’s hiding something, something in him insists.)

“I’m Leigh,” he says, holding out his hand. While awfully rude in fae culture, the gesture had set Spades’ mind at ease years ago when he’d welcomed her into their circle. Perhaps it’d do the same this time.

A pause.

His guest’s hand is soft. (As he suspected.) His grip is firm. And somehow, even before he opens his mouth, Leigh knows how he’ll answer.

“I’m Han.”

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.

.

“So that’s how you got through. A hole in the enchantments…who would’ve thought?”

Han shrugs, humming unconcerned as Leigh pokes and prods at the barrier. Leigh might be a spellcaster, but such barrier breaches are hardly his forte; he’ll have to report it for repair.

Nodding to himself, Leigh turns around--only to stop at the sight of his mortal guest.

Han is sitting on the ledge of a tall rock, swinging his legs and grinning down from his perch. There is something soft about his gaze, something warm. Even enshrouded by the forest’s shadow, Han manages to shine very, very bright.

Leigh clears his throat. “What?”

Han shifts, and abruptly, Leigh realizes he’s about to climb down the boulder. Automatically, he draws closer and offers his hand; Han takes it naturally, murmuring a quiet “thanks” as he lands on the forest floor.

“You think I broke it?”

“No,” Leigh answers automatically (faithfully), and he blinks. “I mean, no mortal can do such a thing. This is old magic.”

Han hums.

“You…didn’t,” Leigh says, but he’s a little less convinced.

“Not on purpose,” Han says, which is a lot to break down. He pauses, then amends: “Not maliciously.”

“You--what were you even thinking? How…” No, Leigh doesn’t even want to know. “Why?”

Han meets his gaze and holds it for a couple moments.

“Love,” he says wistfully. “I think.”

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.

.

It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?

Love.

It’s something Han seems to have loads of. When Leigh finally introduces him to the rest of the village, Han manages to endear himself to all Leigh’s neighbors in a matter of hours. Aelya is shooting him grins from afar. The messenger boys gift Han a fruit basket. Even the grave councilman who stops by just pats Leigh on the back and rambles some sentimental advice.

Everyone is completely misunderstanding their situation--host and guest, he insists--and yet something in Leigh can’t help but feel…good about being paired with Han in such a manner.

It’s irrational. He’s known Han for less than a fortnight--less than a week if you only count the days Han has been awake.

Han, for his part, doesn’t seem bothered by the town’s insinuations. He takes to its mythical, winding architecture immediately, discovering parts of the city that Leigh himself hasn’t despite living here for nearly a decade. Every passing day, Han finds something new to love about the place Leigh calls home.

And every passing day, Leigh comes closer to understanding the “love” his peers have spoken about so highly.

“Leigh!” Han calls, waving from up the hill. Standing amongst homes of whitewashed stone, framed by the fuschia blooms growing from cracks in the sidewalk, he makes a beautiful picture. “You’ve got to look at this!”

“Coming,” Leigh calls.

Each step he takes to close the distance between them feels feather-light.

When he’s reached Han’s side, the redhead takes his hand and pulls him towards the side of the road.

“Look,” Han says, voice an intimate whisper.

Fig-blossoms. Not the mortal kind, but the ones used in fae binding ceremonies. During courting rituals, lovers are expected to gift each other fig-blossoms the color of their eyes.

But Han knows nothing about that, and he’s more than happy to point at a pair of flowers which resemble their hair coloring.

“Don’t you think the colors match really well?”

Leigh’s hand feels warm against Han’s. He doesn’t let go.

“Yeah.”

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.

A letter comes one day. Leigh’s at work when it happens, so he doesn’t learn about it til he’s home and sitting at the dinner table while Han bustles about.

“A falcon dropped off something for you,” Han mentions offhand.

Leigh nods and resolves to read it after dinner. Han’s surprisingly terrible in the kitchen, but he’s been improving with lessons from the neighbors. They’ve fallen into a routine of sorts, unspoken and tenuous. They have a bit of a tacit understanding. Leigh doesn’t ask why Han hasn’t gone home, and Han doesn’t ask Leigh why he lets him continue staying in his.

Of course, the universe decides to throw them a curveball.

Leigh stares for a long time at the parchment, but the words don’t change. Han notices his perturbation and raises an eyebrow, prodding at him with his foot underneath the table.

“My parents want to visit,” Leigh says. “Well, they don’t want to. They’ve declared they’re coming over tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

The dining table goes quiet.

“I can,” Han starts, and for once, he seems to struggle with his words. “I can leave.”

It’s the polite thing to say. The logical thing to say. Leigh’s home has an extensive garden, but it only has a single guest bedroom. Not to mention, it’s been nearly two months since Han first stumbled across his home. One could argue he’s long overstayed his welcome.

And yet…

It hits him then.

(This is something he can’t run away from, can he? For so long, Leigh’s shied away from choosing for himself. An impartial observer, a reliable anchor. That’s all he supposed to be.)

(But some things, whispers that voice in his mind, its words overlapping with his own thoughts, Some things are worth it.)

Leigh’s hand reaches for Han’s across the table.

“Stay,” he says.

Han doesn’t respond at first, staring at him with an emotion he can’t identify.

“Stay,” Leigh repeats, this time stronger. “I can--I can get them a spot at the inn. Their accommodations are nice, and I know the owner.”

Han’s fingers curl over his.

“...you didn’t get me a spot at the inn,” Han says, finally.

“Because you’re--” brilliant, wonderful, a good guest,a great friend, a--

Leigh exhales. “--special.”

And because he’s feeling brave, Leigh continues. “Why have you been staying here? Why haven’t you…”

A giggle escapes Han’s mouth. He pulls his hand back and Leigh only has a moment to mourn the loss of contact before Han makes his way around the table and practically throws himself into Leigh’s arms. They go tumbling down, chair and all, and the impact is hardly anything but Leigh’s head is dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

“Because,” Han says, and he’s so close, their noses are touching. “You’re special.”

He says it so matter-of-fact that Leigh believes it.

His hand reaches upwards, running through Han’s hair.

“Did you know me?” Leigh asks again, but the phrasing is different.

Han blinks back tears and laughs. “Always.”

“I’ve been waiting,” Leigh says.

Han kisses him.

(“Me too,” he’ll say afterwards, when they’ve run out of breath.)