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“For what?” Cal chuckled.
“For staying.”
Chapter
Thirteen
Roy sighed, standing in the middle of the room. A tailor circled him as he squirmed on the little podium they’d brought. An automated measuring tape slithered around his body, choking him slightly when measuring his collar.
Cal’s gaze followed the tape, and he bit into his lower lip hard enough to make it whiten. In that moment, Roy cursed many things—the Void for letting this happen, the tape for snaking around his thigh, and most importantly, Cal for provoking him while he was at the tailor’s mercy.
“So, does your family have any colours?” the tailor asked, scratching their chin with a pencil. With the pixie cut and soft face, body hidden in thick robes, Roy wouldn’t dare assume their gender.
“Colours?” Roy frowned, the measuring tape cinching his wrist.
“Yes. Does your family perhaps have a banner?”
Roy suppressed a snort. “No. Sorry.”
“What’s your profession, then?”
Roy hesitated, unwilling to make his daily work sound more impressive than it was. “I harvest seaweed.”
“Oh.” The tailor’s eyes widened. They clasped their hands. “Then how about a cobalt blue base, with deep, forest-green details?”
Roy cocked his head. Not a hint of mockery in the tailor’s voice, only an artist’s excitement about an idea that sprouted in their head. “O-okay, I guess?”
“Lovely.” The tailor snapped their fingers. The measuring tape fell to the floor, curling into a tight ball. They picked it up and tucked it into their pocket. “Your attire will be ready by tomorrow morning. I’ll bring it to your room for final adjustments.”
“Thank you.” Roy forced a smile, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands.
Cal sat in the armchair, his eyes boring into Roy’s face. The tailor hadn’t needed to alter much for him—the old dinner attire he’d worn to Graxis banquets in his early twenties still fit his body perfectly. When the tailor left, he rose from the armchair, hands clasped behind his back. A kiss landed on Roy’s cheek, soothing his nerves.
“How’s Buttercup doing?” Cal asked.
“She’s good.” With an arm wrapped around Cal’s waist, Roy shook his bracelet, activating a stream of messages from Gwen. For a reason Roy couldn’t properly explain, he hadn’t changed the contact name—she remained Milo’s Mum in his contact list. Pictures of Buttercup, reigning over her couch, feasting on her cod-flavoured snacks, flooded the stream.
“Oh, baby girl,” Cal chuckled, his temple falling onto Roy’s shoulder.
After a moment of hesitation, Roy asked, “Would you like to visit Gwen with me when we get back home?”
“Would she want me to?”
“She told me to bring you.” Roy swallowed, mist coating his vision. “All these years, she’s been telling me to find someone, not to stay lonely.”
“Well, I can’t refuse such an invitation.” With a gentle tug, Cal led Roy to the king-size bed, landing on the velvet covers. “She sounds like a lovely lady.”
“Milo always said he didn’t even realise his dad wasn’t in the picture. His mum was more than enough.” Stretching on the bed, Roy rubbed his eyes. How easily the name fluttered from his lips. Roy wasn’t an expert at dating; in fact, he’d lost his touch over the years, rarely polishing his skills with brief pub encounters. But surely, bringing up his dead lover on every possible occasion wasn’t the smartest strategy.
“What was he like?”
Before Roy could answer, the dinner bell chimed. He shot to his feet and nodded toward the hall. “Come on, let’s not make your aunt wait.”
Roy circled the training grounds, two wooden sticks in his arms instead of laser blades, and a very excited Uros tiptoeing on the red sand.
“Come on, old man.” Uros grinned, tapping the swords above his head. For a moment, the smirk withered.
“Old man?” Roy scoffed. “Perhaps. But I’ve been doing this since before you were even a wishful thought.” He twirled the wooden blades, a memory of his first lesson in the Academy flashing before his eyes. “Now be careful not to swing too hard.”
