Chapter 7: Evening Secrets
Haden was half-reclined in his bed, supported by a number of pillows, while Nix sat quietly on his right shoulder, a small, warm weight against the column of his neck. Though Haden could feel the tension in his tiny body. "Giggle for your thoughts, little man?" he murmured, the words vibrating through his throat.
"I..." Nix’s voice was a whisper, so faint Haden almost missed it over the creak of the old house settling. "This is the first time I've stayed with anyone like this."
The confession hung in the lamplight. Haden held still, afraid a sudden breath might shatter it. He remembered the Heartroot Pit, the vine cuffs, the ruthless precision of Nix’s fingers. This was different. This was a choice. "Yeah?" Haden kept his tone soft, casual, like they were discussing the weather. "No sleepovers in the shiny fae courts?"
Nix gave a soft, huffing sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Courts are for politics. For posturing. Not for... this." He shifted, the delicate points of his wings brushing Haden's skin. "Duty ends at the root-line. We return to our own groves. Our own silence."
"Sounds lonely," Haden said before he could stop himself. It was too honest.
"Practical," Nix corrected, but the edge was gone from his voice. He leaned his head against Haden's neck, a gesture of utter exhaustion."You are a complication, Haden."
"Artist. Freelancer. Complication. I've been called worse." Haden smiled, though Nix couldn't see it. "So, what's the protocol? Do I tuck you into a matchbox? Read you a bedtime story?"
Nix's fingers, small and surprisingly strong, pinched the skin just above Haden's collarbone. It wasn't hard, but it was a warning. "Ow. Okay, okay. No matchbox." Haden chuckled, the movement causing Nix to grip tighter to stay balanced. "Seriously, though. You can stay right there. It's... it's fine."
The silence that followed was thicker, charged. Haden focused on the feeling: the minute weight, the faint pulse of bioluminescence from the seeds in Nix's hair casting minute, shifting shadows on the wall. The scent of ozone and petrichor that clung to him, cutting through the lavender in the room.
"I have never simply... existed in someone's space," Nix said finally. "Without purpose. Without a task to complete or a negotiation to oversee."
"You're not existing. You're recovering," Haden countered gently. "From whatever the hell that Pit does to you. From keeping my dumb ass from falling into a giant hole."
"Your ‘dumb ass,’ as you call it, is the reason my colony still breathes," Nix said, and there was no sarcasm in it. Just a tired, bewildered fact.
Haden’s chest tightened. He let his head tilt back against the pillows, his gaze tracing the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a lopsided bird. "You guys really put all your eggs in one basket, huh? One human. One ticklish, slightly unhinged human who draws dragons for a living."
"You laugh," Nix whispered. "You laugh in the face of the ancient dark. You let yourself be vulnerable in that scaffold, not just with your body, but... you allowed joy in. Real joy. We have not known that in a long time."
Haden had no comeback for that. He felt strangely seen, in a way that had nothing to do with being stripped and restrained. He’d been an object of curiosity, a tool, a battery. Now he was... a refuge.
He reached up, movements slow and telegraphed, and carefully brought his left hand to his right shoulder. He didn't try to cup Nix; he just laid his index finger alongside the tiny figure, a wall of warm flesh and freckled skin.
Nix went rigid for a second, then, incrementally, relaxed against it.
He was so small. Haden could have crushed him without meaning to. "What happens tomorrow?" Haden asked the ceiling.
"My strength returns. We continue. The Heartroot needs your... energy. Your laughter. It is a form of sunlight for it."
"And you?" Haden pressed. "What do you need?"
The question seemed to startle Nix. His wings, which had been folded tight, gave a soft, iridescent flutter. Crimson and blue bled into the amber lamplight.
"I need my charge to be safe. And... perhaps a little less insightful at this hour."
Haden grinned. "Tough. It's my best hour." He paused. "You can sleep, you know. I won't roll over. Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"Damn. You're right." Haden breathed out slowly, letting the moment settle. The tension had bled from Nix's form; he was a soft, warm bundle against his neck. "The tablet's right here. With your wings. Wanna see?"
A hesitation. Then, "Yes."
With painstaking care, Haden used his free hand to reach for the tablet on the nightstand. He woke the screen, the blue light washing over the bedding. He navigated to the file, to the detailed, loving sketch of Nix's wings—every vein, every swirl of color, captured from memory and stolen glances. He tilted the screen so Nix could see.
For a long time, Nix was quiet. Haden could feel him looking, studying the lines.
"You see more than light and shape," Nix said, his voice thick with something Haden couldn't name."You see the music in them."
"It's a good subject," Haden mumbled, suddenly self-conscious.
Nix didn't reply. Instead, he slid down from Haden's shoulder, using Haden's collar bone as a ramp, until he stood on the broad plain of Haden's chest.
He looked up, his golden eyes catching the screen's glow. "Thank you," he said. The words were simple, monumental.
Then, with the grace of a falling leaf, he walked up to the hollow of Haden's throat, curled into the dip there, and went perfectly, trustingly still.
Haden held his breath. He set the tablet aside, clicked off the lamp, and lay in the sudden dark. The only light was the faint, seed-pulse glow from his throat, a tiny heartbeat against his own. He stared into the darkness, feeling the weight of a world, and a strange, fragile trust, resting right over his own.