It was nearly evening by the time Oma walked him to the edge of the forest. 

Benedict knew he should have gone back much sooner, and he wished he could blame Oma, but he couldn’t. He just kept stalling his return home. 

He didn’t really want to go home. But he had to. His parents were going to kill him when he got home as it was. He’d been gone for over a day without even telling them he had left. 

Besides, Oma probably needed some space. He knew Nirayons tended to be very solitary, so it really wasn’t much of a surprise that they were so closed off. They hadn’t seemed too bothered, though – at least, they hadn’t tried to make him leave. 

He could see the sun beginning to dip near the horizon as the trees became more sparse and finally stopped, putting them at the edge of Calmar territory. Benedict would need to catch a ride back to his home, but he’d done that to get here, anyway. Oma had taken him to where Trader’s Way met the forest, meaning it would be quite easy to catch a lift. 

Neither of them spoke for a moment, uncertainty settling over Benedict as he stared up at them, not sure what to do or say. He couldn’t stall this any longer, but the temptation to try to linger a little was very strong. 

“Be careful,” he said eventually. “It’ll be dark soon.” 

He winced at his own words. It felt too similar to when he’d entered the cabin. We’re inside! No shit. He was sure Oma would point out how obvious and basic this observation was, how utterly unhelpful it was to say something that Oma obviously already knew. 

But they just nodded. 

“Okay,” Benedict said softly. “Goodbye, Oma. Maybe I’ll see you soon.” 

“Maybe,” Oma echoed, and then they were slipping into the forest, silent as the evening light filtering through the trees. 

Benedict sighed. 

It was progress. 

He placed his hand over his heart for a moment, feeling the small fox tucked there. 

His chest ached. 

Benedict found a lift and took it home, aware that he looked like an absolute mess and still had no idea how he was going to explain his absence to his parents. He spent the lift ride back putting together a reasonable excuse and daydreaming about waking up with that beautiful headboard over him again. Maybe even with a certain beautiful person beside him. 

He tried not to think about it too much. He didn’t want his mind to run away from him when he was meant to be coming up with a reason for his disappearance. Besides, he really shouldn’t be daydreaming about them at all. 

After being dropped off at home – immediately suitably reprimanded, fussed over, scolded for his recklessness, and then promptly forgotten – he went up to his room. 

He took the fox out of his pocket, then changed into clean sleeping clothes. He would bathe tomorrow – he still felt grimy. But for now he sat on the edge of the bed, turning the fox over in his hands. 

He realized that on the bottom of its raised paw was a tiny symbol etched into the wood. A circle with what appeared to be a series of odd, overlapping triangles. 

It must have been the symbol Oma used as a signature for their work, but… he was sure he’d seen it before, somewhere. He would have to look for it in future. The next time he went to the capital, maybe. 

He really hoped he saw them again soon. Maybe he could ask about it. 

Benedict laid back on the bed, holding the little fox to his chest. 

He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander. He wasn’t surprised when it turned to Oma, but he decided to just let it this time. He had to figure out his feelings around them at some point, best to do it before he saw them again. 

He thought about the way they had tackled that monster to save him, how they had looked at him while he dressed their wound. How they had intended to give up their bed for him, even though he was the intruder. 

How they must have… 

They must have gotten up from their bed after he had fallen asleep and carried him to the bed. 

He felt his face warm, remembering the odd dream he had. Maybe the circumstances were fabricated, but perhaps… perhaps the strong arms and solid chest, perhaps the way he had reached for them to stay in his sleep… perhaps that had all been real. 

He couldn’t help picturing their arms as they’d torn that piece of wood apart, imagining them wrapping around him, pulling him into them, their warmth radiating from their chest like when he’d patched them up. He wished he had been fully awake when Oma had carried him, wished he could truly remember how that felt. 

He thought about how Oma had put wood on the fire for him to keep him warm as he slept far later than them, even after telling him they wouldn’t. They hadn’t woken him up, either, only telling him to help once he was awake. They didn’t have him help with the fish, not even making him touch the freezing water. And they’d made him breakfast, and given him the fox, and let him stay far past his welcome… 

Benedict was used to high society, and in comparison, Oma seemed very rough, rude, even cruel at times. 

But… when looked at like this… 

They were very sweet to him. 

Endearingly so. The fox he held in his hand must have taken hours to carve, and Oma had simply given it to him. 

They had given him a piece of their livelihood, he realized. And wasted bread and cheese on him. Surely they couldn’t buy that often. They had to be dirt poor, living entirely off the land as they were. And yet they had given him this piece of art which must have taken hours to create and which might have paid for food or cloth or any number of other things they might need. 

Benedict very gently set the fox on his bedside table before lying back down, staring at the ceiling. 

He pictured them sitting in that clearing he had first met them, carefully carving a piece of wood. In the daydream, they were carving another fox, just for him. It was slightly bigger than the one he had now, a little sharper looking, rougher around the edges. 

He imagined their big, strong hands working the wood with an unexpected gentleness, a precision one wouldn’t expect from someone of their impression. Their hair was pulled back into that loose bun again, so the sun could hit and sparkle in their eyes when they looked up. 

Benedict wasn’t sure what they were looking at, but that half-smile from earlier returned to their face, grey eyes softened by the dappled light and the fondness in their expression. 

Benedict let his hand trail slowly between his legs. 

He remembered the ease of their strength. The way the wood parted for them like butter, how they had practically lifted him by his shirt collar when he made them mad. And yet how they hadn’t hurt him. They had tried to scare him off, but they had never hurt him. 

How they must have used that strength in defending him from that creature, and when they lifted him without him waking from the chair and carried him to their own bed… 

Benedict closed his eyes, imagining the heat of those strong hands on him, how their warmth would seep into him. Oma carried him again to bed, to their bed, this time smiling that same ghost of a smile down at him. This time when they set him down and he reached for them to stay, they relented. This time they crawled into bed beside him, winding their arms around his waist, pulling him close. This time instead of Benedict hastily pulling away from them, he closed that gap and kissed them. 

He didn’t know what kissing them would be like, not really, but in the daydream their lips were as warm as the rest of them and tasted like that tea, strange and unfamiliar but delightful and soft. 

Benedict’s breathing was shaky, now, legs squeezed tight together. He didn’t have the restraint to think about what this might change, how the next time he saw them he would remember what he had done while thinking of them. He simply couldn’t help it. The past day had been too much, too much fear and excitement and them and he couldn’t help it. 

He couldn’t help thinking about those grey eyes, wishing they would look on him with fondness. The way their demeanor had shifted towards him, however gradually. However painfully long this would take, he imagined a day where they might request his company rather than allow it. He pictured their smile turned on him again, asking him to stay just a little longer. 

He wanted to be the only one they let close, wanted to be the only one to touch them, to receive that smile, to make them blush, to understand their mind. 

He wondered how their hands might feel when laced with his, what it might be like to have them hold his face, stroke his hair. Their hands smoothing down his arms, up his chest to stay over his heart, to feel how fast it was beating. And maybe that little pink dusting would return to their cheeks, and maybe they would let him touch them in return. Maybe that hesitancy and distance would fall away, maybe his hands would finally get to explore that beautiful chest, trace their stomach, feel the muscles in their back. 

The thought that pushed him over, though, was from his dream. He imagined them winding their arms around him from behind, gently plucking a pen from his fingers to stop him from working too late. They rested their chin on his shoulder and pressed a kiss to his neck and whispered words Benedict longed to hear but would never dare to say aloud, and the tight spiral of warmth low in his stomach unwound and he gasped, Oma’s name falling soft from his lips like a prayer.