#makathi

The professor is seated at his desk in the center of the decently sized room. It's a dark, heavy, ornate piece of furniture that matches the door and full bookshelves and is large enough that he doesn’t dwarf it like he undoubtedly would a more delicate one.

“Miss Lavellan.” His voice is calm but his surprise is plain. “Please, take a seat.”

She takes in his office in one discerning sweep. It's lovely, but moody and serious, high ceilings and cohesive décor utterly drowned in black and brown and crimson, though the huge arched windows set into two of the walls help keep the room from being oppressive. Afternoon sun streaming in turns the red from vampire edgelord to pinot noir.

It feels comfortable, but not the lived-in sort. Immaculately clean, and there are no papers on his desk, no garbage in the bin, no personal effects anywhere—save a single picture frame set on one corner of his desk and a pipe stand and humidor on the other.

“I won't be staying that long,” she says.

The large leather chair behind the desk creaks slightly as the professor leans back, arms folded to his chest. His dark eyes are fixed on her in precisely the situation she was hoping to avoid.

“Very well,” he says, then continues before she has a chance to blurt out her confession. “In fact, it is quite fortuitous for me that you visited my office today, as I have been desiring to speak with you since the regrettable events of last week.”

Of course he wants to talk about it. Athi drops her gaze to the desk and clenches her jaw, fully prepared to derail whatever tiresome rant he has planned.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Lavellan,” he says, yanking the fight right out from under her. She scans his expression for signs of insincerity or mockery but finds none. “I singled you out among your peers, and despite any vexation I may have been experiencing, it was not at all my intent to confound or mortify you. I assumed—wrongly, we may agree—that all the students enrolled in a course on the medicinal magic curriculum would already be able to perform the spell I requested, and hoped that by being a part of the lesson you might become more engaged with it.”

The way he speaks, like some century-old thesaurus is swapping words out for him as he goes, is both mesmerizing and irritating. Athi could listen to him speak for hours in that deep timbre which rumbles at the lowest dips in tone, though she has to hold onto the actual words a while, shuffling them around in her head until they fall into some kind of sense. But once they do, she has to agree; his assumption was fair. Most of the others probably could have done it without a fuss. 

Athi digs her thumbs into the back of the padded wooden chair as he keeps talking.

“We may not always see eye-to-eye on appropriate classroom behavior. However, it is not my job to embarrass you into submission, but to teach you. I am afraid I did you a disservice, and I am sorry for it.”

He is quiet, then. Finally. Waiting for her acknowledgment? Her acceptance? Her forgiveness?

The silence hovers a little longer as Athi finds her words.

Then she slumps into the chair. “No.”

His straight black eyebrows draw together, a few deep furrows appearing between them. “I beg your pardon?”

She shrugs one miserable shoulder. “You asked me to do something I should have been able to do. I couldn't do it, got upset, and took it out on you and your very nice shoes. I'm sorry.”

Professor Makon waves one hand in dismissal. “Please do not trouble yourself over the shoes. They survived the assault quite unharmed, I assure you.”

“Glad to hear it. I'd hate to force you into sneakers.” Athi bites back a grin.

He sets his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of him. Taps the tips together thoughtfully. “I appreciate your apology, yet I find myself unable to surrender the entire portion of blame for our… altercation. Perhaps we might agree to share it?”

There's the beginnings of a smile on his face, too, uncertain but warm. It disarms her.

“If you insist,” she agrees.

“Excellent. And now, perhaps you and I can start afresh. Your magi—”

“I’m dropping the class.”

His expression sobers. “Oh.”

“My advisor said I should talk to you about options, but I think it's pretty obvious I'm not cut out for this.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Oh, please. I can't even unwilt a few leaves. And there's no way I'll be able to make up for the hands-on portions with theory, much less put it into practice in future.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have even enrolled.”

“May I ask why you did?”

Athi can't stop the sheepish smile that spreads across her face. “Healers get the best gigs. And the biggest paychecks.”

“So this is merely a means to an end?”

“Does that offend you? That I should want to end up with a reliable, stimulating job that pays me well enough to live a comfortable life?”

“Of course not. That is your prerogative.”

“If it's any consolation, I don't mind the part about saving people’s lives, either.”

His low hum of acknowledgement settles in her ears. Gods, but he’s handsome. It's hard to hold his gaze too long. Athi grabs the frame off his desk and flips it around.

It's a picture of the professor with one arm draped around the slender shoulders of a much shorter woman. He's dressed down, shirt open in a loose vee, and she's gorgeous, with tightly coiled green hair and a wide, infectious smile. A lover, likely enough; he certainly seems happy to be with her. His wife?

Odd that the idea should sit so poorly in her stomach.

“Has finesse always been a struggle for you?”

Athi nods, strangely glad for the interruption, and sets the photo on her lap. “Can’t warm a mug of water for your tea, but I can set a pond boiling.”

“I hope you don't know that from experience.”

She smirks and lets him speculate.

“I wonder if you might indulge my curiosity,” he starts slowly, “with another demonstration.”

So she’s to be a circus act? Watch the sad semi-mage bumble through simple tricks—what fun. Athi barely keeps from grimacing at him. “Why? Are you in the slim and elusive market for a hot spring?”

He laughs, then coughs as if to cover it.

“Believe it or not, I gather no pleasure from your success or failure. I am a teacher, Miss Lavellan, and I only wish to assess your abilities for your own benefit.”

Athi fills up her lungs, then hisses out a long breath. “Fine.”

Professor Makon fishes a pair of scissors out from his desk then unlatches one of the windows, drawing in a branch from the outdoors and snipping off some leafy new growth. He lays it on the gleaming unmarred surface.

“Remove some of its life.”

Athi does so. Stretches out her hand and focuses on drawing its life force, its moisture, its vitality, into herself until the leaves lay crisp and withered on his desk.

“Very good. Now restore it.”

It’s but a sip of life, not enough to have her glowing but enough to drain her when it’s gone. The leaves start to unfurl, then a stray thought, a doubt, and she nearly loses her grip on it. Cuts it off to avoid a disaster.

The professor hums again. “You very nearly had it. Based on what I've witnessed, your magic is indeed quite strong,” he says. “Your willpower is formidable, though your focus and discipline are…” His head tilts back and forth as if sifting the right word to the top of the pool.

“Pathetic?” she supplies.

He levels a weary look at her. “Unbridled.”

Athi snorts. “Tactfully put.”

“It is not a matter of tact but of implied permanence. Do you not wish to improve your skills?”

“I guess, but why do you care?”

“Ah, right. You are quitting.”

She hates the way he makes it sound, but it's not inaccurate. “Yes.”

“And so I should wash my hands of you, then?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

His index finger, long and well-manicured and probably capable of channeling more magic than her entire body, taps steadily on the desk. “What if you did not quit? What if you remained enrolled in my course?”

Athi narrows her eyes at him. “Are you promising to pass me?” He doesn't seem at all the sort, but people can be surprising.

Apparently not this one, though, because he looks thoroughly offended she'd even suggest it.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “Whether you pass or fail will be entirely up to you and your efforts. However, I am willing to take the time to assist you in your studies outside of class if you are willing to apply yourself. I would hate for you to walk away from my course because I failed to assign an appropriate prerequisite. Might I plead with you to finish out the semester with some personal assistance?”

“Outside of class?”

“Can you not make the time?”

“I can, but—”

“Then what holds you back?”

Fair question. He is a master of his craft. It's a generous offer, and one he has no reason to extend. Plus, she could think of worse ways to spend a few hours per week than personal lessons with Professor Tall-Dark-and-Dreamy—even if he does have a smoking hot wife at home. But there is still no guarantee that she won't fail, wasting both her time and money and denting her GPA in the process. And this way, she'll be disappointing more than just herself.

Athi sits back in the chair and sighs. “Will there be snacks?”

Her professor’s eyes soften, deep brown crinkling at the edges as he smiles. “You should take the evening to consider your options. If you are not present in class tomorrow, I shall take that as my answer.”

She’s been dismissed. He holds his hand out and Athi nods and returns the picture. Gathers her bag from the floor and makes to leave.

“If you decide in my favor,” he says, “then I shall see you tomorrow, Miss Lavellan. And if not—”

“See you never?”

He straightens the picture on his desk and meets her eye. Jaw tight, a sharp nod, and he lets her go.

-

Too early the next morning, Athi paces the hall, avoiding the gazes of her potential classmates as they file into the lecture hall ahead of her. She envies their confidence, their probable magical skills, their sense of belonging. Wants to be one of them. Wants to show them.

Wants to show him.

A careful sip of coffee; she leans against the wall to weigh her options. She could leave. Drop the class, and lose the option to label herself a healer-surgeon and all the benefits that would incur. Maybe take another course that’s more to her strengths, like Patient Relations, or Experimental Medicine.

Or she could stay.

Take the professor’s offer and walk in that room like she deserves to be there. Like her magic is every bit as good as it should be. Make her dad proud. Or, if she fails, make him regret subsidizing her education—and still lose the lucrative subspecialty of “healer,” making it that many more years until she could pay back his investment.

Professor Makon wouldn’t fail her, though. Would he? He cares. He’d try. He’d teach her.

Another minute until class starts. Everyone planning to show is already inside, seated, books open, ready to learn. And she’s out here, cradling her coffee like a coward.

The door creaks open. Professor Makon’s head pokes out, black hair pulled back in a neat bun and eyes scanning the hall. Too soon, he spots her loitering like an idiot.

Smiles.

“Well?” he says, “Will you be joining us, Miss Lavellan?”

She gives herself another five seconds to consider, then holds her coffee up—a lavender anti-spill travel mug she purchased especially for this class—and says, “This is my price.”

The professor examines her offering, then opens the door wider to let her in. 

After struggling through undergrad, Athi has learned to be more careful where her grade point average is concerned, and taking this elective is a huge risk. She certainly hadn’t expected to breeze through med school, but this course is not required and she can’t afford a mark on her record. Not after clawing her way this far.

She puts her textbook away, then stands and stretches her stiff limbs as two people who sat in the only row behind hers shuffle toward the stairs, talking about their chosen specialties. They round her desk, attempting to walk together down the decidedly single-file space, and as one guy turns to talk to the other, his bulky backpack swings toward the still-half-full to-go cup sitting on the corner of her desk. Athi’s hand shoots out to keep it from going flying, but the lid pops off and a good amount of room-temperature coffee sloshes onto her desk and the floor in front of her, pouring down the step and pooling in the next row down.

“Oh man, my bad!” The guy looks from the dripping cup in her hand to the floor, then back to her face where his eyes widen and drift down her form.

Athi levels a weary glare at him. “No shit.”

“Um. Do you have— I could— Uh.” He’s blushing, tongue-tied, torn between looking at her and looking anywhere else. Sweet, but useless.

She briskly sets down the cup next to her sepia-stained notebook and shakes coffee from her fingers. “Unless you have a towel in that mammoth bag of yours, or are going to sacrifice your shirt for the cause, forget it.”

He seems to consider the idea, inspecting his outfit as if to recall which one he’d worn today and whether it was worth a successful meet-cute. Decides against it. Shoulders his bag and moves on with another mumbled apology.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” Athi grumbles and holds her notebook up by one clean corner so the excess coffee can drip off. A bunch of pages are soaked through in places, but if she dries it out she could still use them.

“How eloquent.”

Professor Makon stands a few steps down, regarding her with the same keen eyes and cool expression he’d leveled her with when she’d first walked in the room—lost and late and not nearly awake enough to take his presence at the front of the lecture hall in stride. She’d been expecting a professor, of course, but one wizened and reedy, not tall, dark, and gorgeous, and had gaped at him for a long moment, wholly certain she was in the wrong room despite the large-lettered course name on the blackboard behind him. There may have even been a full-body scan performed.

Not her best entrance.

And then he had ruined her seconds-old crush by deciding to be a condescending tightass about it, reminding her of the class start time and pausing the lecture to follow her progress through the room until she was seated.

“At your leisure, Miss…?” he had said.

Out of spite, she had given him her most irritated smile in place of her name, and sipped her coffee—which at that point had still been piping hot and safe in its cup. Then he’d continued on his own after a few more beats of silence, and eventually her cheeks had stopped burning.

And now they've started up again. Fantastic.

“That’s me,” she says. “Eloquent.”

A flinch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite smile-like. “I made it quite clear on the course syllabus that neither food nor drink would be allowed in the classroom.”

“Oh, we’re supposed to read those?”

His jaw tenses. “I believe this most unfortunate incident could have been avoided, had you done so. Though perhaps the fault is mine. I ought to have confiscated your beverage when you waltzed in this morning.”

“Walt—” Athi feels her fist clench, then sharply warm. “Are you kidding? Your class starts at half past seven. In the morning.”

“Ah, excellent. You remember.”

Still no smile, but at this point she’s glad of that. What an infuriating man. Athi inhales through her nose and exhales slowly through her lips, drawing strength from somewhere deep down inside her to keep from throwing the sopping wet notebook in her hand directly at his head.

“Professor,” she says through gritted teeth, “did you bring a towel with you, or have you come all the way up here just to scold me? Room’s empty. Could’ve yelled at me from down there.”

Professor Makon’s indecipherable gaze lowers to the notebook, and hers follows. The next drop of coffee never hits the ground, simply hangs in the air. More of it pours from the pages in a thin stream as if being squeezed out of the paper, coalescing into a small airborne sphere of liquid. Then the puddle on the floor shifts in shape as it flows back into the air, and the sphere grows.

Athi holds her breath for a few seconds, transfixed by the casual display of magic. She’s not doing it, which means—

She glances at the only other possible culprit. His hands aren’t moving, still tucked between his thin brown vest and the white sleeves of his crossed arms, but his focus is fixed and the air around them has changed. Become more mutable, more accommodating.

There was plenty of time to watch him during the lecture. Despite her rough start with the man himself, she could at least enjoy the view between scribbling notes: long dark hair tied back in a bun, a strong clean-shaven jaw, and hints of an impressive physique under that respectable professor getup. From eight rows back, he cuts a very sexy figure. Up close, he’s physically stunning—the butterflies and breathless kind. And he smells good.

Too bad he’s a pompous jerk.

He guides the liquid back into its cup and releases the spell. It isn’t a surprise that a professor of Restorative Magic is adept at using magic, but her own grasp on it is tenuous and unpredictable at best, dangerous at worst. To see it used so easily, and without any kind of kinetic channel, is impressive. And, if she’s honest, intimidating.

“Show-off,” Athi mutters, and resecures the lid to toss the whole thing on her way out.

He sneers at that before tamping it down. Pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I am not sure which offends me more: the thought of flaunting my abilities to impress a mere student, or your assumption that I could not conjure something more advanced than basic liquid manipulation. And I believe the phrase you are searching for is ‘thank you.’”

Sexy and infuriating.

“Chapter eight,” he adds brusquely.

“Excuse me?”

“The material manipulation of a liquid, particularly when the path is visually obstructed or otherwise unclear, can be useful in a number of medical applications, such as slowing or redirecting the flow of blood in order to staunch an internal hemorrhage. It will be covered in chapter eight. Week four, if you care to read the—”

“The syllabus. Right.”

Along with the desk and the floor, her notebook is now dry. She packs it away and slings her bag over her shoulder, exiting the row and turning sideways to get past him.

“Well, this has been lovely. ‘Til Thursday, Professor.”

“Will you be joining us on time?”

She rolls her eyes, not that he can see it. “On time.”

“And without the beverage?”

…it’s a slow cinnamon summer, your spell’s pulling me under…

Wide hands slide up her legs from below and Athi whirls around, startled, flicking a few drops of beige-green paint out into the room.

Makon is looking up at her, hands still moving on her body as it twists to face his. Her arms come so easily around his shoulders from up here.

“Shall we call it a day?” he asks. He has sawdust in his hair. “It is time for supper.”

“Should be more careful. You almost got painted.”

“My thanks, I will take that under advisement. Now, come wash up. You need to eat.”

“I ate like two hours ago.”

“You ate six hours ago.”

“Oh. How time flies when you’re having”—Athi looks around the Koi Pond™ rimmed walls and the drop cloths spattered with her accidents and held down by open paint cans and cheap bare-bulbed lamps—“this.”

The look Makon gives her is soft but demanding. Take care of yourself or I will. He’s sweaty. All worn out and dirty, a full day’s worth of work weighing on him. His eyes are a little red and drooping and his expressions subdued. Too much effort to smile and still he thinks of her.

He’s better to her than she ever could be.

Athi sighs and brushes at the sawdust. A losing game. “Yes, mother.”

“I am not your mother.”

“So you’re my d—”

He smothers her mouth and the grin spreading on it with one hand. It stays put, even when she licks.

“I am going to release you now,” he says, “but I implore you not to continue that sentence.”

There’s no need; he’s already blushing. Athi takes his face in her hands, brushing her thumbs along his freckled cheekbones. Leans down and presses a long kiss to his lips, relishing the way he melts, his fingers curling in. “Just going to finish this corner. Then I’m done. Promise.”

He nods, stretching up for another. “I will hold you to that.”

Athi keeps one shameless eye on his rear end as he goes, hoping he’ll turn around and catch her and blush all over again but he doesn’t.

Back at it, then. Another dip into the bucket, four or so steps up the ladder, the first lines of a different song.

If they’d planned this better, he would’ve done the cutting in and she’d have done the rest, but she wanted to paint and he was busy so that’s not the way it went. She’s not very good at it. Can keep her hands steady no problem, but isn’t patient enough. Isn’t careful.

It looks fine from the doorway but the more she looks the more she sees. And although Makon won’t give her shit for all the flaws, his keen eyes will catch on every drip mark and missed spot and green smudge on the ceiling. He’s particular like that. Wants things done right, done thoroughly, and done well. It’s one of the things she admires about him, even when she threatens to shove a stick up his ass just to pull it out so he knows how nice it feels. Most of the time, it makes her want to try harder. Go slower. Measure twice and cut once. All it costs her to see him satisfied is a little fucking patience.

But the end is in sight and she wants a hot shower, and now that food’s been mentioned her stomach is growling. So she paints a little bit of the ceiling.

Sorry, mountain man.

Perfect is the enemy, or something.

There, it's done, and Athi closes up the paint and leaves the brushes to rinse later. Even though there’s no water running, the bathroom door is still shut, steam escaping from its seams to replace the paint fumes she’s been breathing for hours with the cloying scent of sweet herb and cucumber.

By the time she’s stripped, paint-speckled clothes in a pile on the displaced dining chair to maybe wash or just reuse another day and the rest in the basket, Makon is finished. Stops just past the doorway, looking edible himself in nothing but those baggy gray sweats he knows look damn good on him, with all that warm, freshly clean skin exposed for her to—no, better not. She’s still filthy.

“You left me some hot water, right?”

Maybe she can tempt him later.

Though that look on his face has her upping her chances to definitely. Surprise, raw hunger, and something else layered in that she can’t quite pick out. Nevermind that there’s a streak of paint from wrist bone to elbow and another, she’s pretty sure, on her ear, or that her hair has got to be a right mess.

Athi poses coyly for him. “Stunned to silence by my beauty again, huh?”

“Yes.”

Makon is easy to tease but his earnestness is her downfall and she feels the blush rise to her skin. Doesn’t know what to say. Thankfully, this old house is drafty as hell and the door slamming shut snaps them both out of the moment.

Athi laughs at his wide eyes and takes the opportunity to try and slip past him, but he catches her hand before she can warn him back. Plants a hand at the back of her neck and his lips to the inside of her wrist. 

She mutters, “I’m dirty,” but it’s a token protest. She wouldn’t stop him for all the world.

“And?” As if to prove his point, he kisses her good and soundly, but his self-control is better than hers. Relief and disappointment wash over her in equal measure as he takes a small step back. “Alas, I am not so selfish as to deny my beloved the pleasure of a shower. Go on. I shall prepare some sustenance.”

“Okay. Thank you.” She’s a bit shaky as she opens the door.

Makon nods, and there’s that curious expression again. He’s right in front of her and a million miles away, and it irks her that she can’t read it.

“There’s still leftover steak in there,” she reminds him, drifting down the hall. “And some greens that won’t last too long.”

The scent of his soap still hangs in the thick wet air and the mirror is fogged, blurring her reflection into a roughly person-shaped haze of brown. But there is hot water.

She makes it a quick one, dutifully washes her hair and scrubs at her skin, sloughing off the paint she can see and hoping she gets the rest blind. But she does indulge in a few long minutes more, groaning in bliss as her tight muscles melt and unknot under the cascade of heat.

The bedroom’s empty when Athi finally makes it back, hair towel-dried and dripping down her back. The closet’s huge but currently torn apart, so half their clothes are in boxes, but they’d lugged up a dresser along with the mattress when they decided to stay here through the rest of the renovations. 

Well, Makon and her dad had brought it up. She’d told them where to put it. 

She rummages around the top drawer for a pair of underwear and opens the third for something comfortable, stuffing several of Makon’s shirts back in before finding anything of hers.

Although—

Who is she to argue with fate?

His shirt drowns her perfectly, and she is rather fond of the way he looks at her like this.

More stairs creak than don’t on her way down. A built-in alarm system they’ll probably never get around to fixing. 

She loves this place, their home. Loves the idea of a place all theirs and likes to see the progress her own hands have earned. It’s just… some days, she gets overwhelmed by the endlessness of it. Makon, on the other hand, seems to have an endless energy for the work. Even when solving one problem uncovers three more, or she makes him look at a thousand flooring samples before discarding his opinion and going back to the store for more. Even when he’s bone-tired. It’s like he sees the finished product in the possibility already, whereas all she can see is today’s to-do list.

Everything’s better with Makon, but she can’t picture doing this at all without him.

The kitchen is empty, too. A pretty series of almost sorrowful notes gets louder as she follows them to the living room where Makon sits in one corner of the couch.

Athi watches him awhile, not sure if he’s aware of her yet. Takes in the peaceful beauty of it: his long hair draped over the back, the way his muscles move as the chords shift, the small sway of his head with the phrases. There’s food on the coffee table—a sturdy roadside find—and she joins him, grinning when he sees her and misplays a note and grateful when he keeps playing. As she makes to settle on the floor in front of him, he spreads his legs a little wider.

“Was your shower satisfactory?”

Athi hums an affirmative and rests her damp head on his knee, weaving her hand around his ankle. “Did you eat?”

“I waited for you.”

The lights work but he’d lit candles instead. Looks like all of the odd ones they’d brought in case of a power outage, and it’s nice. Calm, and not too bright, and one of them smells like brown sugar. He’d brought out a large bowl of salad with strips of steak and slices of the bell peppers she’d completely forgotten about, bread with butter, two plates stacked, and an open bottle of wine with two glasses. She should go portion it out but can’t do that and this at the same time.

She turns her face into him and presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh and doesn’t think about tomorrow’s work.

The song stops and Makon sets his guitar aside. He lays one hand heavy on her head, then combs his fingers back through.

“Thank you,” she says, ready to launch into a list of all the things she loves him for.

—

A month later he knocks on her apartment door. A muffled, “come in”, and he twists the handle, pushing himself into her world again. Sera’s out and maybe that’s for the best because he only made the space for one person in his life today.

He should wait for her there on the couch. Thinks that’s what social etiquette is or maybe how it should go. But then again, that blanket sitting there on the couch is the one he tasted her under yesterday. He is Makon and she is Athi. They are them. Do the same rules apply if there are even any rules?

So he searches. His path already marked out by her voice just moments before.

The bathroom door is ajar and she’s climbing out of the shower, hair dry and fully clothed and at first it doesn’t register quite right in his mind. Probably because his body’s holding the thought.

She beams at him with pride and he glances up to see she’s installed a new shower head. She’s only thought of him.

I love you.

He knows that’s what she’s saying so he takes her face in his hands and kisses her.

Her lips. Her eyelids. Her neck.

Lips again.

He turns on the shower, tugging her and her laughter in with him. If it were possible, he’d kiss her soul but he finds that making love to her under the water will do for now.

—

He asks her to meet his family.

“I thought I might be too unworthy to meet your family,” she had said. Such a ridiculous thing to say.

He had opened up a crack and let her light in. What it revealed, he had shared. He was scared. What if he wasn’t what she wanted?

What’s ifs and too soons sounded off as excuses but she’d left space for him to be understood.

He still doesn’t realize that too soon stopped applying to them after the first week.

They are here now, though. To see his family. She seems a little nervous, playing with the back of her earring stud as they stand on the porch waiting for someone to open the door. He squeezes her hand and kisses the top of her head. A brush of his thumb along her skin is a measure of reassurance.

When that door opens, it’s only a matter of minutes before she’s drawn into the arms of those he calls brother and sister, swept up in their admiration of her.

Three months in and he smiles at her from across the room. She’s chatting with Vilanti and he knows from the match in energy, that his family loves her too. The notion of soulmates is laughable but there’s something to be said about the way they fill up the spaces that neither of them knew needed filled.

I love you.

He says it with his eyes when, once again, they lock with hers.

—

“It might be easier if you have this.” Athi dangles a key before him and drops it in his open palm. He tucks it away in his back pocket. Pulls her in. Kisses her forehead. Tucks her hair behind her ear to have a good look at her before he kisses her on the lips.

She smiles and then hops onto the edge of the counter as she includes him in the breakdown of her day. It’s been a long time since there was a fight at the bar and even though it was just a few slaps, he can tell it’s the most excitement that place has seen in months. He asks if she’s okay and she shrugs it off because of course she is. She was only pouring drinks. Wiping the counters. A bystander.

“Red or white?” he asks as he plates their dinner and pulls the wine and glasses from the cupboard.

“Red. Always,” she says and sometimes he doesn’t know where he ends and she begins. Maybe he’s just in love with himself.

But then she jumps on his back and kisses his neck.

“What have you been up to mountain man?”

It’s not a matter of beginning or ending. He is Makon and she is Athi. They are them. He is certain that he is in love with her.

“This and that,” he says. “Nothing as exciting as a fight.”

Just briefly he thinks, what if this life he gives her is boring. What if he’s boring? He’ll just have to make sure he isn’t.

She spots the fresh bouquet on the counter and climbs back down to give it a little sniff. “These are beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” he says, depositing her wine glass in her hand.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Just one woman.”

She smiles. He lives for those smiles and he takes her hand, yanking her into himself and letting the red wine spill down the front of his apron. He searches those beautiful eyes of hers where moss meets bark and wishes he could belong to that whole inner world behind her irises. It almost comes out then.

I love you.

But the apartment door swings open and they’re pulled apart with the sound of Sera’s mock disgust.

“What’s for dinner lovebirds?”

—

It is not falling or flying. It is like when he first discovered he had magic. It is awe and revel.

That is what it is to be with Athi Lavellan.

There isn’t a discussion about it. Not really. She just asks him if he wants to help her do a little rearranging in her room. He agrees of course and brings a pothos in a hanging basket to put over by the window.

“You know I can’t keep plants alive. You’ll have to do it.”

“I know.”

“Well good. Then it’s not wasted space I made in the dresser for your clothes. You can have the left side of the closet too.”

He’s quiet for a moment—too quiet for one like this and her hands are stuffed into the pockets of her jeans.

“If you want,” she tacks on. Too quiet too. Eyes on the floor.

I love you.

It’s whispered in her grand small gesture and he’s moving for her, hands on her hips, bringing her into himself.

“If I want? That’s like saying I can breathe, if I want.”

“Well, do you?” She is earnest and she is glorious.

“Yes,” he answers. “I like breathing.”

He’s rewarded with a smile and a kiss and he knows that answer will suffice.

—

Six months in and his hands are in her hair and moonlight washes over their bodies.

Enough is enough and too soon is stupid.

“I love you,” they say in tandem, out loud just as their lips pull apart.

His forehead touches hers, long dark hair falling over his shoulder and brushing across her breast. Makon lets out a small laugh then rolls over next to her. He props himself up on an elbow.

“How long did you fight with yourself that you would not be the first to say it out loud?”

A pillow comes flying at his head which he blocks before she shoves him onto his back and straddles him.

“That sort of information will cost you.”

“Will a secret be good enough of an exchange?”

“Depends on the secret. I need at least a medium sized one.”

“So not too big?”

“Just tell me already.”

“I’ve wanted to say I love you since the day I met you.”

“I’ll be honest. That would have scared the shit out of me but I still would have gone on a date with you.”

Makon lets out a laugh that shakes both their bodies. Then he says, “gods, I love you so much,” and it keeps spilling off his lips, pouring over their intertwined bodies.

He’s not sure she can sop it all up. All this love.

2

She is the first to spot the party on their return. The first to spot him, rather; his is an impossible figure to miss. He brightens at her wave. Tired, of course, from the journey, and looking forward to a warm meal and a comfortable bed.

There are some familiar faces around him, though fewer than he left with. Still fighting, she hopes, not buried somewhere under bare soil. But no, the others would have seen to the proper rites. She smiles warmly and extends her hand as they meet again.

“Makon.”

“Athi.”

He remembers her name.

His palm is huge and calloused, his grip firm and brief but it feels too long. Not long enough.

“Camp’s not far,” she says and tears herself free and leads them homeward.

3

Makon’s magic is elegant. Like part of him, an effortless expression. The gaggle of children surrounding him marvel at his display and Athi feels silly for joining them, but damn. She leans against the rough, choppy trunk of a dogwood, impressed and jealous in turns, watching plants she’s never seen sprout and grow and bloom and die again in the ground before him.

He sends the children away, chuckling at their enthusiasm. Stands and dusts off his knees, catches her eye and she nods.

“You put on quite a show, mountain man.”

“Thank you.” He glances around and ducks beneath a branch to come in close. “Something tells me they’ve not seen magic used for such frivolity.”

“Nope,” she admits. “Keeper’d have my head. If I could manage it in the first place.”

“Ah. May I ask why?”

Athi smirks. “Didn’t you know? Humans hate magic. Use it irresponsibly and they’ll come for you. Snatch you out of your bed in the middle of the night and cut off your ears and lock you away.”

He looks disturbed. “I am sorry. I forget how different our lives are.”

“They are that, but I was kidding,” she says with a grin. “Mostly.”

After a short silence, he places his hand on the bark a good two feet above her head. He looks down again, at her, and seems entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well, I hope your Keeper will not begrudge me one last indulgence.”

She’s waiting for him to explain when a subtle movement behind him draws her eye. All along the low-hanging branches, buds that weren’t there a moment ago unfold into tender white blossoms and Athi cranes her neck back to see the rest of the tree following suit. She laughs in surprise and reaches up to run her fingers through the leaves. It’s not an illusion. She has so many questions, about how does it work, and is it even useful, and will the tree still bloom when it’s supposed to, and as he bids her goodnight and walks away, she forgets them all.

4

Loop. Loop. Loop, and through. Loop. Loop. Loop, and through.

She doesn’t realize how focused she is until a voice behind her snaps her back to reality.

“Beautiful work.”

It is deep and melodic and undoubtedly his and Athi whirls her head around to make sure because he’s not supposed to be here for another month, but there he is. Standing behind her, tall and handsome as ever. She grins and jumps up and the half-woven basket tumbles from her lap to the ground, forgotten in her excitement.

She hugs him.

Tight.

When she realizes what she’s done, how close he is, she stiffens. Almost lets go, but he seems comfortable enough and they are friends after all—or something like it—and maybe it’s not so strange.

His low laugh rumbles within her. “I am glad to see you as well.”

Athi steps back and feels silly, tucks her hair behind her ear and shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her tunic.

“Sorry,” she says.

“Whatever for?”

“I don’t usually—nevermind. You’re early!”

“Indeed. I hope it does not put a strain on your clan’s goodwill, but the tasks which kept me homebound were completed sooner than expected, and the darkspawn have been subdued—at least for a time.” He picks her project up off the ground and dusts it off, running his thumb along the threads as he admires her handiwork. “I saw no cause for delay, and a boon of fair weather sped our journey southward.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to find somewhere to put you,” Athi says, folding her arms and pretending to think it over. “You don’t mind sharing with the halla, right?”

But she can’t keep a straight face.

Makon’s smile breaks when she does. He laughs, and to have caused it is an airy, delightful feeling. Then he holds up the basket. “Truly, this is remarkable. We have weavers, of course, but the style is quite different.”

“Thanks.” She takes it from him and sits back down. “If you’ve got time, I could teach you.”

She’s not sure why she says it, having never taught anybody anything before, and she’s sure he’ll decline. Sure he’ll need to settle in or find someone more important to inform of his arrival, but instead he takes a seat near hers in the sweet-smelling clover.

“Yes. If you are willing, I would like that very much.”

5

They leave tracks in the snow. Athi looks back and wonders if someone might wander this way and imagine them walking here, like this, or think the image too strange to be anything but happenstance. His large and hers little, parallel but dissonant. Like a bear and a fox—they couldn’t have come here together.

She tries to follow in his for a time, erase hers entirely, but his strides are too great and she slips. He turns when she yelps, and laughs, and helps her back up, and brushes the snow from her hair. It is far better, anyway, to walk beside him.

“Have you— Are you— attached to anyone?” He says it out of nowhere.

“Not that I can see.”

By now he knows her well enough to roll his eyes. “Athi.”

Her insides go warm. “No, I haven’t and I’m not.”

Would you like to be? he’s supposed to say now. As in, perhaps, to me?

Then he’ll get bashful, and stammer, but the hard part is done. She’ll take his hand and say yes and he’ll smile and kiss her and—

It’s one of her more overplayed scenarios, but it never gets farther than that. She doesn’t know what it feels like, doesn’t know what he’d do, doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know what comes next. He can’t stay, after all, and she can’t go.

But all he says is “Oh,” as though he wasn’t the one to ask.

They are neither of them overly talkative, but the silence is usually less intentional. Less smothering and more space. But with his eyes straight ahead and his expression deep and stern, he looks lost in thought and she doesn’t wish to be a bother. They keep walking, parallel but disconnected.

“Are you?” she asks after a very long time. “Or have you?”

“No.”

This is not going well.

“Welcome to Nevarra,” Athi says as they pass through the tree line. Here, their tracks join dozens of others—littler, larger, criss-crossing errand-paths on unrelated journeys. “Almost there.”

“Excellent. This is a lengthier trek than I had anticipated.”

“It’ll be worth it.” She hopes, less sure of herself now than she was four hours ago.

Makon opens his mouth as if to respond, but then closes it again and and keeps walking, wearing a private sort of smile. In his defense, she didn’t give him much information when she extended the invitation. And in hers, he didn’t bother to ask before accepting.

The ground rises and the wood along with it, making their slippery steps more dangerous, but the climb is why they came this way. That, and the bare hill at the top, which as they crest it is forgotten. And, most importantly, Makon’s soft appreciative sigh as he stops to take in the view. A sapphire blue lake lies below, frozen still and flat and gleaming, etched with fierce white streaks painted bold across its surface like a sky-god’s canvas. Nothing but a handful of fir trees mars its edges; the rest is an unbroken blanket of snow.

“Well?” she asks, and wraps her arm around his. “What’d I tell you?”

Makon smiles that same smile from before and looks down at her, warm as summer.

“It is not my intent to belittle such beauty, but”—he flusters, coughs, glances away, mutters the rest—“it was already worth it.”

+1

He's right. He's terrible at goodbyes.

The first time he left, she was nothing to him and he said nothing to her. The second time he left, he and the others had gone before the sun had finished rising, and she had not even begun to consider it. This time, he was what—waiting her out? Hoping she wouldn’t notice he was missing?

No. This time, she wants more.

A lot more.

Athi sits down next to him. Despite the cool winter air, her palms burn in anticipation; she has to make absolutely certain her magic is pushed back, locked away, just in case. When she is sure, she reaches over. Half expects him to stop her, but he doesn’t. Eyes wide, he lets her guide him in nearer with the gentlest touch, like a halla left out to graze too long. Like he wants to go where she’s taking him. Like maybe he’s in as far as she is.

That’s a good sign, right?

“Fine,” she says against his mouth, steadier than she thought she’d be for getting this close. Though no one told her heartbeat, fluttering like a hummingbird. “No goodbye.”

So little distance between them, then with a tilt of her head there is none. Their lips meet and she feels his hesitation, feels him freeze and then melt, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. Solid, even through her coat. His skin is cold but he warms so, so quickly. Moves against her like water.

She could kiss him for days.

But a burst of chatter nearby reminds her they don’t have that kind of time. He can’t stay, and she can’t go. Unwilling, she pulls away.

Makon opens his eyes and veritably beams at her, and she wants to forget that fatalistic bullshit and kiss him all over again. But instead she pulls a strand of his hair through her fingers and grins at her success.

“Just… don’t be a stranger, mountain man.”