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Emyr’s head, rubbing a few strands of hair between his fingers,
because he had to give him some affection. Then he backed away, and
saw to the room. He’d been in here once or twice before and
disliked it intensely. It should have been cozy, with the apple
boughs and flowers tapping against its south-facing window, and a
clutter of bookcases and chairs, but it just felt sad and lonely.
It always felt a little bigger than it was, haunted by a hint of an
echo. Now it was cold, so much so that Heilyn tried to rub some
warmth into his arms. He was soaked through, and he was beginning
to feel it.
    There was a cold draft
coming down the chimney, but even the worst gust wasn’t bad enough
to make it dangerous, so he got a fire started and nursed it until
it was going strongly and his face felt well-toasted.
    Emyr hadn’t moved, and
Heilyn decided that he’d respected his grief enough. He headed over
to the settle, peeling off his dripping cloak and testing the cloth
of his shirt with a grimace. It felt clammy to the touch, so he
said, “I’d ask if I could borrow a shirt, except I’m not sure any
of yours would fit me. Are you going to be horribly offended if I
walk around without one?”
    Emyr tipped his head
up. “What?”
    “Well, I think I’ve
brought in enough rain to fill a bathtub,” Heilyn said, making his
tone light and bright. “I don’t really look good in rain. It’s not
my color, you know, and I don’t want to get pneumonia and sneeze
all over Father Cian’s murals, so I’m just going to strip off, if
you don’t mind.”
    “You’re wet?”
    He could manage a smirk
at that, though he wanted to do nothing more than wrap Emyr up and
hold him tight. “And it’s not like you haven’t seen it before,
though I might have to expose my feet as well today, because I have
puddles inside my boots. You’re not likely to be driven mad with
desire at the sight of my little pink toes, are you? I knew a man
once who swore that he would only marry a woman with perfect toes.
I mean, I’d look for a pleasant temper and a kind heart first, if I
was planning to settle down. I do love a handsome face, but a kind
heart’s worth more, don’t you think?”
    “Heilyn.” Emyr was
staring at him, the despair in his face giving way to a faint
irritation.
    Good. Heilyn pulled his
shirt off, and made himself keep babbling. “Look, no scars. Pumpkin
didn’t do me any permanent damage, or maybe it was just because you
patched me up so well. I do think that painting in his field was
actually the best decision I’ve made since I came to Sirig.” He
turned round to pull his boots and socks off, and patted his own
ass, making a face. “Sopping. Can’t really strip those off, though,
can I?”
    “You… You’re
ridiculous.”
    That stung a little,
but Heilyn couldn’t really deny that he’d been trying for that
reaction. Emyr stood up, glaring at him, and snapped, “Stay there
and warm up! I’ll get you a blanket.”
    Heilyn did as he was
told, stripping down to his braies and crouching in front of the
fire. He was just beginning to worry again when the door cracked
open, and Emyr came back. Heilyn heard him stop in the doorway, but
the crackle of the fire was too loud to guess why, so he turned
around to look.
    Emyr was just looking
at him, his eyes wide and his lips parted. There was color in his
cheeks again. After a moment, he swallowed and held out the blanket
he was carrying, letting it spill out of its folds. Heilyn went to
him, and Emyr folded the blanket around him. Then, with a little
broken breath, he wrapped his arms around Heilyn and buried his
face against his shoulder with a slow sigh.
    Heilyn held onto him,
pressing soft kisses to his hair and murmuring vague reassuring
things. Emyr was a good man to hug, just skinny enough that Heilyn
could get his arms right round him, but still firm and solid and
strong. Heilyn could feel the muscles knotted in his back and
stroked warm circles over them until Emyr