Autumn in Edinburgh was lovely. Or it would have been lovely if not for Jasper’s dour mood. Instead of appreciating the turn of leaves from green to gold, all he saw was decay and the inevitable mess as the leaves fell from the branches to become soggy mulch on the pavement during Scotland’s perpetual rainy season. He tapped one foot impatiently as he waited in line to order something warm to drink. Maybe if he ingested enough sugar, it would grant him a false sense of happiness.
Dorian had been in a rotten mood for weeks – understandably, but still – and it had proven contagious. Their last real conversation in the training yard hadn’t done much to lift either of their spirits.
The café was bright and cheerful, and the girl who took Jasper’s order offered him a wide smile he didn’t bother returning. He tugged his hat down over his ears. He hated hats. It galled him to have to hide his feathers – they were magnificent – and it would be hell to unflatten them later. As he waited for the barista to prepare his and Dorian’s drinks, he considered the patrons in the little café, nestled in a narrow side street in Edinburgh’s Old Town but close enough to the tourist center that the number of people provided Jasper and Dorian a modicum of anonymity. Jasper’s brown skin didn’t stand out quite so much, and no one looked too hard at the concealer caked over Dorian’s scales.
Jasper hoped Dorian’s contact would reach them soon. He wanted this business to be over with. Not only for Caius’s sake – he could admit to himself that he wasn’t nearly that altruistic – but also for his own. Once Dorian was happy, then Jasper could go on being happy. That this was the way of things made him cringe internally.
The barista finished making their drinks, topping Jasper’s with a generous helping of whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate sauce. He might have separated himself from the Avicen by attitude and distance, but he shared the sweet tooth so common among his kind. He paid, tipped the girl well but not too well, as both stinginess and excessive generosity were bound to attract attention, and made his way to the table near the back of the café where Dorian was currently staring a hole into the wall opposite his seat.
“Yoo-hoo, earth to Dorian.”
Jasper waved his elbow in front of Dorian’s face, ripping him from his guilt-ridden reverie. Jasper stood beside the table they’d occupied in the Edinburgh café since that morning. Dorian eyed the two steaming mugs of cocoa in Jasper’s hands with suspicion that lessened only somewhat when Jasper placed the plain one in front of Dorian and kept the sugary monstrosity for himself.
“The Avicen sweet tooth is a great and terrible thing,” Dorian said. He gave his drink a dubious sniff, then crinkled his nose in distaste. “I asked for coffee.” It was petulant, even for Dorian.
Rolling his eyes, Jasper slid into the seat opposite Dorian. He began spooning up the whipped cream and shoveling it into his mouth. He had to eat it before he could get to the liquid. Whipped cream facial hair wasn’t cute past the age of five. “Trust me, Dorian, caffeine is the last thing you need. You’re strung so tightly I’m expecting you to snap like a worn rubber band at any minute.”
“I’ve been awake for the better part of forty-one hours,” Dorian said, scrubbing a hand over his face. He did look tired. Dark smudges had appeared beneath his eyes, and his mouth was carved into a seemingly permanent frown. “And if I don’t ingest something caffeinated soon, I’m likely to pass out, face-first, into this hot cocoa.”
“Drink it,” Jasper said, his tone softening. “The sugar will help keep you awake. And the soul-cleansing embrace of chocolate might make you slightly less gloomy.”
With a grudging sigh, Dorian lifted the mug to his lips and took a tentative sip. Jasper had made sure it wasn’t as excruciatingly sweet as his own. Dorian didn’t appreciate the beauty of sugar the way he did. It probably would have damaged Dorian’s street cred if all that world-weary stoicism enjoyed a doughnut every once in a while. Jasper blew on his own cocoa. It was a touch too hot to drink. But Dorian ignored the way the cocoa must have scalded his tongue. Perhaps his guilt was making him feel self-destructive, as if he deserved the pain.
Jasper’s amber eyes narrowed. “That cocoa is approximately eight million degrees. Let it cool down first.”
Dorian took another sip.
Idiot, Jasper thought.
He watched Dorian drink in stubborn silence, his brow wrinkling in contemplation. Jasper was more perceptive than most people thought – raging narcissism was a mask he hid behind so that no one ever suspected how closely he was watching them – especially where it concerned Dorian. Especially since that night at Avalon, before Dorian had found out about Caius’s abduction. Jasper knew that Dorian felt as though he’d truly failed the one person he’d sworn to protect. It had been a wonderful, joyous night, and in the weeks since then, Dorian had been acting as if he deserved neither joy nor wonder in his life.
“Didn’t we talk about you punishing yourself?” Jasper asked.
“I’m not punishing myself,” Dorian lied.
Jasper was kind enough not to call him on it.
Outside, an insistent autumn rain pounded against the sidewalk, painting the city in shades of gray.
Jasper cradled the mug in his hands, leaning down to blow gently on it again. His cocoa was still this side of scalding; it needed a few minutes before it was drinkable.
Silence – as complete a silence as one of the busiest cafés in the middle of Edinburgh ever saw, anyway – descended on the table he shared with the man who was potentially, possibly, definitely-not-but-definitely-maybe his boyfriend. They hadn’t had that conversation yet, and judging by the storm clouds that perpetually flitted across his maybe-boyfriend’s eye as his maybe-boyfriend contemplated the fate of a man who was not Jasper, it wasn’t a conversation they’d be having anytime soon. Bigger fish to fry and so on. Jasper sipped his cocoa and burned his tongue.
Dorian drummed his fingers on the worn wooden tabletop. In the past few hours, he’d already fidgeted with the salt and pepper shakers, peeled the label off a defenseless bottle of Heinz ketchup, and ripped no fewer than five napkins to shreds. His hands refused to be idle. Jasper knew they itched to reach for a blade – sharp, deadly things were comforting to Dorian in a way that Jasper should not have found quite so appealing – but stillness had been forced upon them while Dorian waited to hear back from his contact within Wyvern’s Keep. Nothing to do but wait, and in the meantime, destroy the table settings. The silence stretched.
Jasper ached to reach across the table and take Dorian’s agitated hands in his own, to stroke the scars and calluses on them until the tension bled from them, but he knew it would do no good. Dorian had turned down Jasper’s offers of comfort at every turn. Gently, of course. He was always so gentle with Jasper, as if sensing that gentleness was the sort of thing with which Jasper was desperately unfamiliar, but there was no amount of softness that could take the sting out of his refusals. Jasper kept his hands wrapped firmly around the warm ceramic of his mug and ignored the hairline fractures forming in his heart as he watched Dorian tear himself to pieces.
“You know,” Jasper said, “this is probably the worst date I’ve ever been on.”
Dorian grunted in response, his eye drifting to the door, as it had been throughout the hours they’d been sitting there. His contact was late. Two hours and twenty-seven minutes late to be exact, but who was counting? Certainly not Jasper.
An abrupt stillness fell over Dorian, his one good eye riveted to the door. Jasper swiveled in his seat to see what had caused Dorian’s shift, but all he saw was a twentysomething hipster entering the café, newsboy cap pulled low to protect his eyes from the drizzle that had been constant since their arrival in Edinburgh. The man fit the description Dorian had given Jasper before they’d left their nondescript little hostel – dark hair, thick eyebrows, strong jaw, prominent nose – but he was human. Not their guy. Jasper watched as the man bantered with the girl behind the counter before placing his order. With a sigh, he turned back to face Dorian just in time to see the Drakharin’s shoulders droop. He looked deflated, as if the surge of expectancy had taken something vital out of him.
Jasper opened his mouth to reassure Dorian that everything was going to be okay – a saccharine platitude that he wasn’t sure he could deliver with a straight face – when the bell above the door tinkled again. A stillness passed over Dorian as his one eye tracked someone approaching their table. Jasper chanced a look over his shoulder. A young man neared, his slate-gray eyes resting on Dorian.
He walked past their table and went into the men’s room.
Curious.
They waited in silence for a few minutes. Dorian said nothing. He simply sipped his cocoa with what would have looked like nonchalance to anyone but Jasper. Soon enough, the man exited the bathroom and walked right out of the café.
Without a word, Dorian got up and entered the bathroom.
A dead drop. Jasper smiled into his cocoa. In the loo. How clandestine.
When Dorian reemerged, there was a small, vial-shaped bump in the front pocket of his trousers. He sank back into his seat and picked up his mug.
“We should wait a few minutes before leaving,” Dorian said quietly.
“Do you think we’re being watched?” Jasper had scouted the café before they’d chosen it for their rendezvous. He hadn’t noticed anything or anyone suspicious, but it was possible he had missed something, even with eyes as keen as his.
Dorian shrugged. “Probably not,” he said. “But I find it’s always best to assume the worst and be pleasantly surprised when it fails to come to pass.”
Jasper snorted into his cocoa. “That’s remarkably optimistic coming from you.”
A smile ghosted across Dorian’s lips. Jasper’s heart gave an embarrassing lurch at the sight of it. “What can I say?” Dorian’s tone was casual, but one hand rested on his pocket and its precious cargo. “Our day just got a whole lot brighter.”