Harvest 5
Twinned
Book 1: Commit to the Kick
Harvest 5
Alaric calls Minissale’s from the road, and the hostess promises to put something together for them. There’s no nearby parking, so Chris stays in the car, keeping it running, while Alaric runs in and pays for the big bag of food. The waitress, Jenny, remembers him, and he vaguely remembers her. She asks after Chris while she tucks what looks like a quarter of an apple pie and a small box of cannoli into the bag as well, after he’s paid.
“No charge,” she says with a cheerful smile. “No one deserves to eat takeout on Thanksgiving without something nice for dessert.”
The place smells like roast turkey and braised beef, along with herbed potatoes. The smell of warm apples lingers in the air and tastes like home. Alaric doesn’t comment on Thanksgiving, simply thanks her and quickly escape as an older couple approaches to request their table.
He slides into the car and opens the bag, pulling out a cannoli. The pastry crunches, and the sweet cheese on the inside is perfect. He savors it before he swallows, then holds out the remainder. When Chris opens his mouth, Alaric nudges it in, watches as Chris smiles.
“They have good desserts.”
“We didn’t stay for dessert last time,” Alaric remembers. “We went back to OPT for beer.”
“We can have good beer this time, too,” Chris points out. He pulls onto campus, then into the small lot near OPT.
Alaric takes the bag as they head inside, the place silent. He doesn’t even hear Lewis’s heartbeat, so he must have found someplace to go for the holiday.
“Seems like we’ve got the place to ourselves.” After getting used to the noise of the house, it almost seems too quiet to Alaric. He inhales, tastes the mixed scent that makes up the family that is this house, and relaxes slowly.
Chris takes the bag and walks into the kitchen, spreading everything out on the table. He grabs plates and instead of putting his lasagna on one plate and Alaric’s chicken parmesan and ravioli on another, he takes a little of each like it’s family style. “Good to be home?” he asks.
Alaric huffs his approval of splitting the meals, then digs into the fridge to unearth two beers. He pours them both, hands one off to Chris and takes the plate Chris made for him in exchange. “’S’more like home here right now, yeah,” he admits. “’S’good to be back. My father and I—” He sinks down onto the couch in the living room. “I scared you.”
“Not exactly.” Chris sets his food on the coffee table, pulls it closer and slides to sit on the floor. He’s too tall to fit, his body folded awkwardly. “I thought the two of you were going to try to kill each other, and yeah, that’s a little terrifying. I didn’t think you’d hurt me.”
“Good.” It helps to know that. Alaric takes a forkful of the lasagna; it’s good, full of meat and cheese and a brightly flavored tomato sauce. He can see why Chris likes it. “Not good that you thought we’d kill each other.” He grumbles under his breath. “He won’t look past his narrow view.”
“Clan’s Clan,” Chris says, and Alaric looks at him sharply. Chris’s head is bent down, focused on his dinner, and Alaric can’t tell if he’s smiling although there’s a faint scent of amusement in the air.
“I wasn’t that bad at the beginning of the semester,” Alaric mutters.
“You have changed,” Chris counters. “It’s hard to go from one environment to another, especially when you’re coming from a place with a small view of the world. You never brought humans or Mages home when you were in high school, did you? And Orson never brought his friends home.”
Alaric rumbles, because Chris has a point but he doesn’t feel like admitting it. “Where’d you pack the journal?”
“It’s in the bag.” Chris pushes his plate away. “You want me to go get it? I need to work some more on my project. Doesn’t seem like anyone’s around; we could use the living room.”
“Mm.” Alaric gets up to grab more food while Chris goes up for the journal and his work. By the time they get themselves arranged, the TV is on in the background with a movie streaming quietly. Chris sits on the floor, papers and his laptop on the table, his back against the couch and leaning against Alaric’s leg. Alaric presses his knee against Chris’s shoulder as he flips through the journal.
It’s not easy reading.
The concepts themselves aren’t difficult, but Alaric’s brain keeps shying away from the ideas. There’s a page which is clearly the development of a ritual, with complicated mathematics and notations for blood. There’s another page which seems to be attempting to break down and define the elements of Clan via their magical nature, relating shapeshifting to innate ritual.
The ideas make Alaric’s skin crawl, and he changes position, pulling both feet up on the couch, toes pressed against Chris’s shoulders.
Chris reaches up to touch Alaric’s ankle, and it helps, just for a moment.
Something simmers under Alaric’s skin, and he reaches for his phone, opening the stalled text conversation thread with Thorne before he thinks about it. There have been a few conversations since the night Thorne stopped sleeping with him, but not many. Alaric sees him more in person than he speaks to him in text.
Alaric closes the conversation and drops the phone. He picks up the journal, flips a few pages, and starts reading.
There are times when it seems like the shadows are alive in the corners of the room. The living room is pitch black at night—bulbs blow as soon as we put them in the lamps. Dionne refuses to sleep on the couch; she spends her nights with me or Sal. We’re working on a ritual to cleanse the house. Sal thinks something is polluted, says he can feel it. Dionne claims there are things in the darkness that we can’t see because we move too slowly. I can’t smell anything, can’t taste anything, can’t fight anything. All I know is that all the darkness makes my skin itch.
Alaric’s throat closes, and he coughs roughly. He twitches, foot touching Chris’s neck, and Chris glances up, brow furrowing.
“Shadows,” Alaric says, and Chris nods like that means something. Alaric raises the book. “I’ll just keep reading.”
“Mm.” Chris turns his head, his cheek brushing Alaric’s ankle for a moment before he turns back to his work.
The phone is in Alaric’s hand again, his heart hammering hard. His thumbs hover over the keyboard and he tosses the phone on the table this time, where it lands face down, skittering to touch the edge of Chris’s laptop. Chris just moves it over a few inches and keeps working.
Alaric exhales, turns the page.
There’s a name and number at the top of a page, notes in two different pens and handwriting like Orson and Sal must have interviewed someone at the same time, writing on either side of the page. Descriptions of Clan and Mage intertwining in one family, and tiny careful notes about a ritual: calming the beast. On the next page is another ritual to raise the beast, and after that, notes on how certain forms might interact differently with magic while attempting to develop a ritual to make something slow.
Alaric drops the book on the couch, nearly kicks Chris in the head as he gets up and walks away.
A whisper of noise and a soft thunk behind him. “Ric.”
He turns back, and Chris is still sitting, his hand over Alaric’s phone.
Fuck.
“You’re upset,” Chris says quietly. “You’re pacing. And you thought about texting Thorne.”
Alaric shrugs, skin heated as Chris watches him. “So?”
“You de-stress with sex, right?” Chris pushes the table out enough that he can come to his feet.
Alaric blinks, the thump in his chest almost too loud to hear over. “Not with you.”
Chris stops mid-step, rocks back. “Okay then.”
The scent of hurt and disappointment is thick in the air. “Fuck.” Alaric scrubs at the back of his head, scrunches his eyes shut as if when he opens them again everything will reset back to before he opened his mouth. “You don’t want to have sex with me,” Alaric says bluntly. “And I don’t want to fuck you up. Like Thorne did.”
Chris frowns. “What makes you think it’d screw with me?” He spreads his hands. “With Thorne, I had no idea what I was getting into. He thought I knew, I thought it was something different, and we were both young and stupid enough that we didn’t talk about it. I know you, Ric, and I know exactly what you’d be offering. And what wouldn’t be involved.”
The sound of his heart is louder now, hammering in his ears. Alaric clenches his hands tight, then flexes his fingers, and it does nothing to loose the tension thrumming under his skin. “I feel like I’m going to fly apart,” Alaric admits. “Like I just….” He trails off, raising his hands, lowering them without knowing how to say it.
“Like you need someone else to help you hold it together?” Chris asks. “Like you need physical comfort—like Clan, only more physical?”
Alaric nods, feet stuck like glue to the floor as Chris approaches slowly.
“No strings,” Chris says quietly. “No expectations that it’s anything else. Just something to help you relax.”
Chris is right there in front of him, a heavy warmth that contrasts with the cold wall at Alaric’s back. Musk in the air, a deepening scent of arousal that swirls around them, and Alaric needs this. He needs to just fall apart, to let go, for the tension to seep from his bones. He nods once, and Chris crowds in closer, catches Alaric’s hands in his. He tangles their fingers together, and carefully raises Alaric’s hands above his head, presses them back against the wall.
When Chris kisses him, he leans into him, his weight holding Alaric in place even though the touch of his lips is careful. Gentle. Alaric growls softly, and Chris kisses him harder, teases his mouth open with his tongue until Alaric gives way.
Alaric can feel Chris’s heartbeat where they lean together; it races as fast as his own.
Chris lowers Alaric’s hands, steps back slightly. “You good?”
“Fuck.” Alaric blinks, catches himself leaning toward Chris then sways back to standing upright. “Yeah. ‘M’good.”
Chris smiles, touches Alaric’s lower lip with his thumb. “Good. Then let’s go upstairs.”
