“I showed you the herb. You said you’d leave.” 

“I did! I never promised I wouldn’t come back,” Emerson pointed out. 

Oma narrowed their eyes at him. “I won’t help you.” 

“I’m not asking for help,” Emerson declared, marching past them into the woods. 

Oma snarled, grabbing the collar of Emerson’s shirt and dragging him back in front of them. Emerson yelped, high pitched and scared, nearly fumbling his notebook. 

“That’s rude!” Emerson squeaked, pushing fruitlessly at Oma’s hand. “Stop it.” 

“You leave,” Oma said, voice low, leaning down to his level, “or I kill you.” 

Emerson visibly swallowed, green eyes very wide. 

“No.” 

Oma blinked. “No?” 

“You won’t kill me,” Emerson declared. 

He was calling their bluff. That little – 

Emerson finally wriggled free, Oma’s grip having loosened in shock at his stupidity. “Right, then. Bye.” And he pushed past Oma and went deeper into the woods. 

Oma closed their eyes, pinching the bridge of their nose. 

They followed him. 

It wasn’t hard to do. Oma was large, yes, but Emerson was so very loud. Emerson was loud, and brightly coloured, and Oma was silent and melded into the trees. He wouldn’t even know they were there. 

Emerson wandered deeper into the woods. He appeared confident enough about where he was going, but he kept glancing around, eyes wide, jumping at every little sound. 

Emerson stopped in a clearing, going around the perimeter like before, and Oma scaled a tree again to watch him. 

There was rustling on the opposite side of the clearing. 

Emerson looked over. “Oma?” he called, scanning the woods. “Is that you?” 

Oma remained silent from their perch, frowning as they watched. Had he really expected Oma to follow him? Had he not expected the woods to be dangerous? 

Soft growling from the edge of the clearing. 

“Oma, stop, this isn’t funny,” Emerson snapped, though he looked scared. 

The creature lunged out of the woods at Emerson, knocking him to the ground with a cry. Oma watched, weirdly curious as to how Emerson would defend himself. 

Emerson pushed desperately at the thing pinning his chest, thrashing violently. “Oma! Help!” he screamed, kicking at the thing. “Where are you? Oma!” 

Oma let out a long sigh. 

They dropped down from the tree and threw themself at the beast, knocking it off of Emerson. They snarled at it, the creature slashing at them. It was a short tussle – Oma caught a claw to their shoulder, but it was better than being pinned and getting their throat ripped out like what was about to happen to Emerson – before the creature was scampering away, whining, disappearing back into the forest. 

Oma turned back to Emerson only to see the man launch himself at them. 

Oma’s eyes widened, expecting a knife buried in their gut, but instead Emerson flung his arms around Oma’s shoulders. 

He was… 

hugging… 

them. 

What. 

Oma carefully pried Emerson off of them, pushing him away. 

“Thank you,” Emerson said brightly. “I knew you wouldn’t let me die.” 

“I didn’t,” Oma replied flatly. 

Emerson’s smile just widened. “I think you act meaner than you are.” 

“I think you’re an idiot who almost got himself killed.” Oma rolled their eyes and turned away from him, starting off into the woods towards their house. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Emerson asked, running after them. “You have to take me back, I don’t know the way!” 

“I’m bleeding,” Oma stated simply. “I’m fixing that.” 

“But–! Ugh, okay,” Emerson groaned, following them. “…Wait, you’re bleeding?” 

Oma didn’t reply, but Emerson darted around them, staring up at them. The gash on their shoulder was small, but it had ripped their shirt. They were more worried about the cost of thread and how much work they would lose having an injured shoulder than they were the actual pain of the injury. 

Emerson had a different perspective. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry! That must hurt… oh, no, this is my fault,” he fretted, pulling out his notebook. 

Oma rolled their eyes. “Would you rather I have let you die?” 

Emerson pressed his lips together. “No…” 

“Then shut up.” Oma pushed past him, heading towards their house. 

Emerson kept stopping to pick various herbs, so he couldn’t really be that worried about Oma’s wound. Oma didn’t know whether to be offended or not. 

Emerson was still following Oma when they got back to their cabin. Oma always felt more comfortable in their home, but they’d also never had some strange little man follow them back there before. 

“What are you doing?” Oma asked when Emerson started to take off his shoes. 

“We’re inside,” Emerson observed intelligently. 

“No shit,” Oma said. “I’m not putting more wood on the fire for you. Keep them on.” 

Emerson slowly straightened up again. 

Oma brushed past him, going into the small bathroom, fetching their first aid supplies. Proper first aid was one of the only things Oma was willing to spend their money on – they weren’t about to bleed to death out here. 

They shucked off their coat, dropping it on their chair, then pulled their tunic over their head. It was cold, but they needed to be able to clean and stitch the shirt, and properly clean the wound. 

There was a strange, strangled sound from behind them. 

Oma turned, frowning, to see Emerson staring at them. “…what?” 

“Nothing!” Emerson said hastily, shaking his head. “Just, um, can you – do you have a mortar and pestle?” 

Oma narrowed their eyes, but nodded, setting down the first aid kit and fetching it from under the sink. They watched curiously as Emerson ground up some of the herbs he had gathered on the way into a paste. They cleaned their wound while he did whatever he was doing, using a washcloth, hissing softly at the pain. 

“Here,” Emerson said after another minute. He picked up the bowl and headed to where Oma had left the first aid kit. “Do you have disinfectant?” 

Oma slowly shook their head. “Too expensive.” 

Emerson beckoned them closer. “I can’t offer anything more sophisticated, I’m afraid,” he said, “but this should help.” 

Oma cautiously approached him. “Are you trying to poison me?” 

“What? No!” Emerson exclaimed, eyes wide, shaking his head. “You helped me. I’m repaying the favor.” 

Okay. The favor trade was respectable, and honestly the only currency Oma really trusted in the woods. They slowly sat down next to him. 

Emerson smiled brightly at the display of trust, standing so he could reach their shoulder. 

The plant paste was cool on Oma’s skin, and Emerson applied it very gently. Whether that was out of fear or kindness Oma wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t painful either way. Oma wasn’t really sure what they were doing. They didn’t let people touch them. But… it felt kind of nice, to be looked after. They didn’t like that it was Emerson, but they sort of liked this. Even if they couldn’t really feel Emerson’s touch through the paste. 

When he was done, Emerson picked up the gauze and wrapped the wound, surprisingly skillfully. Oma frowned watching him. Who was this man? Oma thought he had him pinned as just another spoiled rich brat, but spoiled rich brats didn’t patch up the weird person they found in the woods. 

Emerson taped off the gauze wrap. Oma looked at him, the way his bottom lip was hooked between his teeth in concentration. They wondered absently why Emerson bugged them so much, and yet not at all. Oma hated people, but they hated them in a passive way. They didn’t care about people. Emerson actively bothered them, and this fact bothered them more. People didn’t do that. Oma had never cared about someone before. 

“There,” he said quietly, his fingertips lingering on their skin. He looked up from his finished work, meeting their gaze. Oma tilted their head slightly, trying to figure out why he was looking at them like that. They hadn’t cut their face, had they? But then Benedict cleared his throat, pulling away, face going red. “Um. Anyway, I should be going… can you show me the way?” 

Oma was about to nod, still confused but deciding not to worry about it, when there was a crackling in the air outside. The sky flashed white, and a moment later there was a clap of thunder, and the rain began to pour. 

“Oh, no,” Emerson groaned, looking outside at the torrential downpour. “We can’t go out in that, we’ll get lost, or swept away, or…” He shook his head. “That is not the way I want to die.” 

Oma heaved a long sigh. 

“Fine.” 

Emerson blinked at them. “What’s fine?” 

Oma grit their teeth. “I have a bed.” 

Emerson stared at them. “I should hope so,” he said, but for some reason his face was all red. 

Oma just nodded. They turned into their bedroom, grabbing a blanket and laying it out on the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Emerson asked. 

Oma looked up to see him frowning. “…I have to sleep somewhere.” 

Emerson stared at them. Oma wondered how stupid he was. What about this was confusing? Oma didn’t understand him. 

“Wait, you’re sleeping on the floor? I’m taking your bed?” Emerson clarified, looking appalled. 

“You’d rather have the floor?” Oma raised an eyebrow. Emerson was the rich brat. This didn’t make sense. The only reason Oma was giving him the bed was because they thought he would complain all night and keep Oma up if he had to sleep on the floor. 

“No, but – you’re hurt!” Emerson protested. 

Oma glanced at their shoulder wound. “…and?” 

“You can’t sleep on the floor when you’re hurt, do you have a couch or something you could use?” 

“Do you see a couch?” Oma raised an eyebrow, spreading their arm around the room. 

“Okay, so you should have the bed!” Emerson decided. “Not that I want the floor, but…” 

Oma frowned at him. He thought about the way Emerson’s face had gone red. Had… had he thought Oma was inviting him to share the bed? That didn’t make any sense. Oma barely tolerated Emerson. Why would they sleep in the same bed as him? Calmarans made no sense. 

“We’re not sharing,” Oma said flatly. 

Emerson flushed a little darker. “I didn’t – okay.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I’m still not taking your bed. This is your home, I’m the one who just followed you here…” he trailed off, looking slightly guilty. 

Oma glared at him for another moment. Fine. They could work with this. Emerson was stubborn, but they were smart. 

They stalked off to their bedroom, leaving Emerson to the floor and the blanket. But they didn’t go to sleep. Instead they went to their woodcarving table, and began a small new project. They would deal with Emerson’s stubbornness after he had gone to sleep. 

Benedict stopped every once in a while to pluck an herb before scampering after Oma to keep up with their long strides. They didn’t ever slow down for him when he needed to grab something, so he got pretty good at quickly crouching and picking what he needed. 

He felt bad. If he hadn’t marched off into the woods with no idea where he was going, Oma wouldn’t have had to save him from that… thing… and they wouldn’t be hurt. So he was gathering the things he would need for a medicinal paste. At the very least he could keep the scratch from getting infected. 

Oma was incredibly strange in so many ways. They told him off for trying to take off his shoes, and he immediately noticed they had kept their large boots on. He decided that made sense, for warmth, but then Oma took off their coat and draped it over a chair. 

Benedict frowned watching them, but couldn’t help admiring their arms under the short sleeves of their tunic, large hands coming to the hem of the shirt and oh, shit – 

The tunic was gone, now discarded over Oma’s head. 

Benedict made an embarrassing little squeaking noise, not expecting Oma to do that, taking in their now-revealed, toned back, the scars they seemed to be nearly covered in. They turned towards him, frowning, and Benedict nearly died when he was given a clear look at Oma’s front, their chest, their abs, goddamn it Benedict get yourself together. He could feel heat rushing into his face, thoroughly embarrassed by his reaction. 

“What?” Oma asked flatly, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“Nothing!” Benedict managed. “Just, um, can you – do you have a mortar and pestle?” he asked, trying to distract them. It seemed to work – they went into the kitchen and left a mortar and pestle on the counter. Benedict quickly set to work making the medicinal salve, very, very aware of Oma’s eyes boring into the back of his head, tracking his every motion. It was incredibly clear that they didn’t trust him. At all. Which, he supposed, was fair, but still. What was the worst Benedict would do? He wasn’t a monster. He was well-bred. It wasn’t like Oma really had anything to fear besides social annihilation, which Benedict somehow got the feeling Oma wouldn’t care about. 

Given that they lived in the woods and all. 

“Here.” Benedict picked up the bowl and went into the small sitting room – there wasn’t really a difference between the kitchen and sitting room areas, really, no wall dividing them, which was strange – and sat on the arm of the large, squishy chair, beckoning Oma over. “Do you have disinfectant?” 

Oma shook their head, cautiously approaching him. “Too expensive.” 

“I can’t offer anything more sophisticated, I’m afraid,” Benedict said, beckoning them again, gesturing to the chair, “but this should help.” 

Oma frowned. “Are you trying to poison me?” 

“What? No!” Benedict exclaimed, horrified. Was this what life was like out here? Did everyone want to kill everyone else? “You helped me. I’m repaying the favor.” He chewed his lip nervously, hoping Oma would let him do this small thing after they saved his life. 

Very, very slowly, Oma crept over, carefully sitting in the chair. 

Benedict lit up, smiling brightly, excited to have earned this tiny bit of trust. He stood from the arm of the chair – Oma was so much taller than him, he had to stand to have their wound at chest-height – carefully applying the salve. 

Oma’s skin was shockingly warm to the touch. He didn’t know what he’d expected, exactly – maybe for them to be as physically cold as they seemed personality-wise. But no, it was as though a fire burned beneath their skin. Benedict felt very, very warm, standing this close to them, though he wasn’t sure if that was the warmth of Oma or the fact that he could easily run his hand over their chest if he wanted. 

Not that that was a good idea. 

A horrible one, in fact. 

Oma would probably kill him for that. 

But he couldn’t keep his thoughts from wandering, biting his lip in an attempt to stay focused. The scratch was nasty. He didn’t know how Oma seemed so entirely unbothered by this whole thing. They seemed unbothered by most things, actually. Benedict seemed to be the only thing that irked them. He wondered if he should take this as a good or bad sign. 

What was that saying? Love and hate were nearly the same, based on strong emotion, but apathy was the opposite? Something like that. Benedict was just glad Oma felt something towards Benedict, given that they seemed to feel nothing towards most things. 

Benedict finished with the salve, wiping his fingers on his trousers – he cringed a little internally at dirtying them, but they were already stained with mud from his encounter with the creature. Besides, he was sure his servants could wash it out. It was just plant matter. He picked up the first aid kit, fishing out the gauze. 

He realized belatedly that if he had just handed Oma the bowl, they probably could have done all this themself, but he was already starting to carefully wrap the wound, thankful for the training his father had made him take when he’d escaped into the woods the first time. He was thankful for it now – he didn’t want to appear completely incompetent. Benedict’s father had realized that he wouldn’t be able to stop Benedict from slipping away, so he should just make sure Benedict didn’t kill himself while he was at it. He’d probably be yelling his head off if he knew Benedict was in the cabin of a near-stranger, patching them up, standing between their legs so he could reach them easier, his fingers lingering on their skin… 

Benedict felt his face warm further, as though just now noticing his position. He had finished wrapping the wound, he didn’t need to be so close to them still. 

“There,” he said, very softly, as though saying it was finished aloud would finally kick his brain into gear and get him to step back, to lift his fingertips from Oma’s collarbone. He needed to back away. He wasn’t backing away. 

He glanced up from Oma’s shoulder to find them watching him closely. He stared back, gaze flickering uncontrollably down to their lips. They were so very close to him, and they were so very attractive, even if they were rough around the edges and clearly didn’t like him much and lived out here but damn it, Benedict had never been so confused by someone in his life and it was magnetic. He had never had to work to understand someone before. He had always just known the way people thought. 

Oma made no sense to Benedict and he wanted to peel apart their layers until he knew every single damn thing about them. He wanted to be the only one who knew how that mind worked, he wanted to be the only one they let close to them like this, he wanted to be special. 

He glanced back up at their eyes. They were still just looking at him. He blinked down to their lips again, sure that they would be just as warm as their skin… 

Oma’s head tilted, just slightly. It felt like an invitation. It would be an invitation, with anyone else, and with anyone else Benedict would have moved by now, would have kissed them by now, but he had no idea how to read Oma and his heart was pounding. Was this an invitation? Benedict could feel his breath coming in too fast, too shallow, could feel Oma’s breath as well, slow and steady in contrast, warm on his face… 

What was he doing? 

He felt his face turn a rather spectacular shade of red, hastily jerking away, clearing his throat. “Um. Anyway, I should be going… can you show me the way?” he managed, his voice breaking slightly from his nervousness, wincing at the sound. 

Oma frowned at him, looking like they were studying him intently. Benedict felt pinned. Their stare was intense – everything about them was intense. 

Benedict nearly leapt out of his skin when thunder broke the taut silence, and a moment later the woods outside the cabin turned into a sheet of water. 

“Oh, no,” Benedict groaned, looking out the windows. What was he going to do now? “We can’t go out in that, we’ll get lost, or swept away, or…” He shook his head. “That is not the way I want to die,” he fretted. He couldn’t leave like this, but he doubted Oma would let him stay, either. Oma would probably kick him out, leave him to drown… they were even favor-wise, anyway, they didn’t owe him anything. 

Oma heaved a long sigh, and Benedict looked back to them. “Fine,” they huffed. 

Benedict blinked at them. “What’s fine?” 

Oma’s jaw clenched. “I have a bed,” they bit out. 

Benedict stared. 

“I should hope so,” he managed eventually, somehow managing to blush even darker. Obviously Oma had a bed. They wouldn’t say that if it didn’t mean something. Were they… was Benedict going to sleep with them? Wait, no, not with, just next to. Obviously. Not that Benedict wouldn’t want to sleep with them – he couldn’t help the way his gaze flicked down to their exposed torso again, their toned body – but Oma didn’t seem the type to just do that. Also, what the hell was he thinking? God, he needed to get ahold of himself. He was losing his mind. 

It was the stress, he decided. The harrowing experience of almost getting his face eaten that was making him feel so weird. He didn’t actually feel anything for Oma, obviously, he was just in distress. 

Oma didn’t elaborate. They turned away from Benedict, vanishing into another room. Benedict was frozen. He wasn’t sure if he was meant to follow, but then a moment later Oma came back with a thick blanket, spreading it on the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Benedict asked, frowning. 

“I have to sleep somewhere,” Oma replied. 

“Wait, you’re sleeping on the floor? I’m taking your bed?” That didn’t seem right. Not that Benedict wanted the floor, but he was the intruder here, and Oma was hurt, and this didn’t seem right or fair and Benedict realized he was going to be severely in Oma’s debt if this was the way the night was going to go. 

“You’d rather have the floor?” Oma asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“No, but – you’re hurt!” Benedict protested. 

Oma glanced at their shoulder wound. “…and?” 

“You can’t sleep on the floor when you’re hurt, do you have a couch or something you could use?” 

“Do you see a couch?” Oma spread their arm around the room. 

“Okay, so you should have the bed!” Benedict insisted, trying not to think about how that implied that there were only these three rooms in this… house. Cabin. “Not that I want the floor, but…” 

There was a pause, where Benedict looked at them, not sure what else to say but determined not to cave. 

Besides, maybe if he fought hard enough –

“We’re not sharing,” Oma said flatly, as though they knew what Benedict had been thinking. 

Benedict blushed harder. “I didn’t – okay.” He swallowed,crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “I’m still not taking your bed. This is your home, I’m the one who just followed you here…” he trailed off, aware of how weird that made him sound, not wanting Oma to find him any more repulsive than they already seemed to. 

Oma just glared at him for a moment, then eventually got up and stalked out of the room. 

Benedict blinked. Was… what was happening. He didn’t understand them at all. Was he meant to follow? To wait for them to come back? 

He decided to wait, but after a while decided that they weren’t coming back. Maybe that was their way of relenting. They were probably asleep right now… 

Benedict yawned. He hadn’t realized it, but the events of the day had exhausted him. He looked at the blanket on the floor, then over at the squishy chair. It had clearly been designed with someone of Oma’s size in mind, because Benedict was sure he could curl up on it just fine. 

He picked up the blanket and did just that, wrapping himself up, arm tucked under his head as a pillow. It wasn’t comfortable, exactly, given he was used to stretching out on a massive feather bed, but it was a lot better than the floor. 

The cabin was warm, Benedict was tired, and it wasn’t long before he was drifting off.