I'm sure I had things to do today but then @zmeess posted this and what is one possibly supposed to do but furiously fic about it? I don't know what this says, it fell out of me like a possessed thing. High-level spoilers if you've not watched the wedding. Thank you zmeess for taking over my brain.
When the hand-shaking and back-slapping is all done (for now, for now), and Jester’s skirts have been thoroughly checked for rotting inter-dimensional plant matter—when the sun is a brand at the edge of the sea and the first guests are trickling off in the direction of the Chateau for the reception—when there is a moment, it seems, between the surreal duties of love and friendship and family—Essek touches the small of Caleb's back, and tilts his head toward a quieter spot at the edge of all the pomp and circumstance, just a little way along the cliff. They slip through the well-wishers with nods and glib promises to speak tonight (“Oh definitely, we’ll see you there, ja, ja” ... “who was that?”).
Caleb sinks onto the little bench, tucked discreetly behind a few conjured pink trees, with a sigh that he feels in his terrible, creaky, forty-two-year-old joints. It has been a day. It has been, perhaps, more like at least three days packed into one.
Essek joins him; he is quiet. Watching. He worries, of course.
Caleb brushes a knuckle over the pristine silk of Essek’s trousers, pulled taut over his knee. “I’m alright, Schatzi. We came through fine. I promise.”
Essek catches his hand, softly.
Caleb looks up; it’s enough to make Essek smile, a little.
That’s enough to make Caleb smile a little too. “How are you?”
Essek’s arched eyebrow is a scold in itself. “You are incorrigible. I am perfectly well. I was not abducted by a mad hag in the past hour.”
He is impossibly beautiful in the dying light (he is always most beautiful when he is just a little cross…or when he is reading, or when he is terribly focused in the garden, or when he is casting, or when he is tangled in Caleb’s sheets with a little sweat on his brow and his dear lips set open, panting softly; Essek is beautiful rather a lot of the time, is the thing).
Caleb raises his other hand to trace the plane of skin between Essek’s sharp collarbones and lush pink silk. “I like this.”
Essek’s eyebrow arches further. “The place I’m not clothed?”
Caleb grins. “Always, dear.” (Essek glares, with no affront at all.) Caleb inclines his head. “No. No, the outfit is beautiful. You did a wonderful job.”
Essek smiles properly at that, small and pleased; he has fretted over the outfit, Caleb knows.
“I have not seen you in this neckline outside the house before. It’s a beautiful top. You pull off the pink better than I do.”
Essek scoffs. “It’s a ridiculous colour. But you look lovely; we both did very well.”
Caleb runs his pointer finger where Essek’s thick glut of pearls touches his throat. “Hoarding all our components?”
Essek smacks him where their hands are still joined. “Terrible man.”
The last sun makes amber of the pearls in his elegant hair and spangled over his perfect, ostentatious shoulders; catches the silver at his eyelids and puts fire in his ringlets and all the pale edges of him. He has always been a creature of magic to Caleb: a powerful, dangerous thing that Caleb really shouldn’t touch and does anyway, again and again and again. He looks like it, here, now, even soft-eyed with relief and concern and pleasure in the moment and the elation of the day.
Essek reaches a little awkwardly with the wrong hand to brush the huge, blousy flower tucked behind Caleb’s ear; he is not moving his other hand from Caleb’s. Murmurs, “I’d say I can’t believe you accepted this, but—Jester.” His fingers pause a moment...then trail decisively down over Caleb’s jaw, a proprietary path through his beard.
Caleb lets himself be pulled closer as Essek’s fingers catch beneath his chin. “She is a hard lady to say 'no' to.”
Essek’s lips are cool and sweet and very slightly sticky with cosmetic.
Caleb shuts his eyes: the easy fire of the last sun over the ocean; Essek’s fingers curled into his own, oh so gentle but decidedly not letting go; Essek’s index finger sweetly directive at his jaw; the quiet breeze off the water, easing the humid heat of the coast; Essek’s kiss, familiar and undemanding, banked warmth and welcome.
Maybe tonight, if he’s not exhausted and/or intoxicated beyond capability, he’ll chase that warmth: Essek is exceedingly lovely today, and he was terribly flirtatious this morning, and there is always something in the relief after surviving, and well, weddings and all that.
For now, he deepens the kiss just a little, just enough to properly ruin Essek’s lip gloss, just enough to let him know: they are here. They survived, as they do. The world is good and they are in it together. Essek breathes in like surfacing from sleep; his mouth tastes like cinnamon and promises and home.
The sun sinks into the water; the clouds are co-operating with Jester’s terrible colour scheme.
The world is good, and they are all in it here together.
Caleb clasps Essek’s hand.
Everything is right with the world.