Once the house’s redecoration was complete, Laurence had moved his altar from the bedroom to its own room on the top floor of the mansion. It gave him space for prayer, but it also allowed him an area in which he could practice magic without causing Quentin any distress.

He was pretty sure Quentin knew there was more going on up here than just prayer and offerings, but the earl didn’t ask, and Laurence didn’t say. It all worked out better if they both pretended there was nothing magical going on.

Laurence closed the door and crossed to the window box of herbs he grew on one of the sills. The subtle greenish glow from his wards bathed the plants in a delicate light, and in Laurence’s opinion looked far better than Rufus’ original turquoise.

This was one of magic’s little quirks, Ru explained to him a couple of months back. Every magician’s spells came out with their own flavor. Most people couldn’t see magic as subtle and passive as a ward - especially wards which weren’t their own - but it wasn’t unusual for more noticeable spells to give off a hue which reflected the caster’s personality. Laurence couldn’t put a finger yet on how turquoise linked to Ru’s prickly, solitary nature, but his own green seemed the most natural thing in the world.

He twisted a few sage leaves from one of the herbs in the planter and rubbed them between his fingers as he moved to the altar and sank cross-legged before it. They were plump and furry, and the pungent aroma broke free to coil around his workspace.

Laurence placed the leaves in the little antique bon-bon dish and struck a match to light them with. Fresh sage took a while to catch, but once it did, he blew the match out and set it into the dish, then closed his eyes.

He had to find the safest possible way to tell Quentin what his father had done.

Laurence couldn’t carry this burden much longer. It was too great, and it was too unfair on Quentin. The man deserved to know, but the risk was immense.

He should’ve never looked.

But that was done, now. Laurence was forced to watch as the duke beat, tortured, and raped his own son, and Quentin didn’t remember any of it. His brain had shut down, protected itself year after year until Quentin’s fear of sex and magic had become an almost insurmountable barrier.

Which was best? Could they find a therapist for Quentin to speak to, or could Laurence break it to him gently?

He took the sage-heavy air into his lungs and closed his eyes, then let out his breath slowly as he immersed himself in the river of time and swam with the tide toward multiple potential futures.

“How can you be so sure?”

Quentin barked a short, bitter laugh. “To tell you that would be to damn myself. Tell me how it’s possible to forget such a thing.”

The man sitting in an armchair across from Quentin spread his hands gently. “The brain is a remarkable thing, Mr. d’Arcy. But if you yourself cannot remember it, then how can you be sure it happened?”

“Because Laurence said so,” Quentin snarled.

The doctor nodded to himself and scribbled a note. “And Laurence never lies?”

Books began to shake themselves free of shelves around the room.

“This conversation,” Quentin said so coldly that frost sprinkled from his words, “is over.”

Laurence sighed and freed himself from that vision. It was too disconnected, useless for his purpose. He had no idea what led to it, or what Quentin had been told.

He centered himself and tried again.

“Baby. Can we talk a minute?”

Quentin looked up from his book, then set it aside with a soft smile. “Of course, darling.” He sat forward attentively.

Laurence bit his lip, then sat on a couch and clasped his hands together. “I want… No. I need to tell you something. Something bad, and there’s no easy way to do it.”

Quentin’s cheeks pinked as the rest of his skin paled. His pupils sank to pinpoints. “You’re leaving,” he whispered with the certainty of a man who had always known this moment would come.

“Goddess, Quen, no!” Laurence gaped at him. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“I…” Quentin’s eyelids fluttered, then he sat back and gripped the arms of his chair. “Then what is it?”

Laurence ran hands through his hair and tugged at it a little. “I know why you can’t remember your birthdays. I know. I’m sorry. I thought maybe something bad could have happened, so I looked, and… Quentin, I’m so sorry…”

Quentin blinked slowly. “Pardon?”

Laurence sprang from his seat and made it to the window, then pressed his forehead to the glass. “It was your dad, Quen. He hurt you.”

The room stilled until that all Laurence could hear was his own ragged breathing.

“I’m not quite sure that I follow,” Quentin said gently.

“It’s where your ability to use magic comes from. He gave it to you. I don’t know how long your family’s done this. There’s…” Laurence screwed his eyes shut. “There’s a ritual. It takes thirteen years. You were born without the power to wield magic so he gave it to you, just like his father gave it to him.”

Quentin’s nose twitched slightly, and he frowned toward Laurence. “Why would he make me forget such a thing?”

“I don’t think he did. He didn’t intend to.” Laurence wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I think you did it. I think your mind shut down to protect you from what he did to you, just like you shut down whenever other… bad stuff happens. I think it learned to do that when you were five and it’s done it ever since.”

“Bad?” Quentin glanced down, and his fingers traced his collarbone through his shirt. The frown grew deeper.

“Torture,” Laurence choked. “He tortured you, baby.” He inhaled sharply. “He beat you, and he raped you.”

Quentin looked up. His features tightened, but somewhere in his eyes lingered doubt.

Laurence choked back a sob. “I watched. I saw it. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you, but I can’t keep it secret. It’s not fair. It’s not fair on either of us.”

Quentin blinked, and then he sank back into the armchair, and his head lolled against the cushions.

Laurence had to run for cover when the window he was pressed against broke under the howling of the wind.

He rubbed his eyes and hissed. There was no way just coming out with it like that could end well. This wasn’t a band-aid to rip off. This was Quentin’s sanity, and Laurence wouldn’t give up on it.

But he did need a few minutes before he was ready to try again.

* * *

He watched so many potential futures that his heart ached and his head swam. How many times could he see Quentin shut down like a computer unplugged at the wall before he lost track of what he was even trying to achieve?

Laurence yawned, and stretched until his triceps ached. Every path led to misery, and no matter which way he turned he couldn’t find a way to tell Quentin the truth without it damaging him so much that he noped out of the world.

And if Laurence couldn’t tell Quentin, then he needed to move on, somehow. He had to find a way to cope with what he knew and to put it behind himself, because it couldn’t ever come out, and if Quentin never knew, then did it matter so much? To Laurence, obviously, yes. He’d tear the duke’s throat out if he ever laid eyes on the guy, but to Quentin?

Maybe ignorance wasn’t just the best way. It was the only way. If Laurence needed to speak to a counselor or someone to learn to deal with this weight then that’s what he’d have to do, but at least if he lost his shit at a doctor he wouldn’t reveal the existence of his gifts at the same time.

It wasn’t perfect, but nothing ever was.

Laurence groaned as he pried himself to his feet. The sage had long since smoldered out, his joints were stiff and his ass numb.

He’d waited two damn months for Samhain, and the only thing he got out of it was deal with it.

Sometimes the universe was an asshole.

* * *

By the time he snuck his way into the bedroom, he could make out the soft sounds of slow and shallow breathing.

Quentin was asleep.

Laurence stifled another yawn and moved to the bed so quietly that even the dogs didn’t stir. He stripped down to his briefs and eased under the sheets.

Goddess, he yearned for the day he could go back to sleeping naked. It felt so weird to have clothes on in bed.

No matter how stealthily he moved, he couldn’t prevent his weight shifting the mattress, and Quentin stirred faintly.

“Laurence?”

Laurence smiled and draped his arm around Quentin’s waist. “Shh. Go back to sleep, baby.”

Quentin gave a faint grunt of agreement and wriggled up against Laurence’s chest, but his breathing leveled out soon enough.

Laurence held onto the man he loved and wished there was some way to move forward. Ultimately that was what Samhain was for, wasn’t it? To let go of the things they’d lost, to say goodbye to the past and let it stay where it belonged rather than drag it into a new year like a ball and chain. Instead of parting with his father, maybe Laurence should have been letting go of this burden he held in his heart so that they could get on with living.

Quentin’s breath was warm, and his body at ease. He’d gone from utter terror at the very thought of allowing Laurence to share his bed to being so relaxed with it that they could sleep entwined together, legs and arms and bodies fused into a knot which parted only with deep reluctance come the morning light.

Nothing was worth the risk of losing this, and the longer he lay by Quentin’s side, the calmer he became, the more he grew to accept his decision. Quentin was happy like this, and Laurence would turn the Earth on its axis just to see him smile tomorrow. What he couldn’t cope with was the thought that Quentin might never smile again.

So Laurence would find a way to bear those secrets, and allow the past to swallow them whole.

It was for the best.