Page 20 of Tossing the Caber

Worried about Laurel being the subject of someone else’s advances—a stranger possibly flirting with hishusbandwhile Beacon sulks is what was needed to spur him into motion, apparently—Beacon begins making his way toward them. He’s stopped by someone’s big dumb meaty arm catching him around the shoulders, yanking his head down so the interloper can muss his hair. At least his mother already removed the flower crown.

“Raibull,” Beacon growls.

“Don’t be such a grump,” Raibull says, releasing him. Which is a good thing because if he hadn’t, Beacon was going to slug him. “You keep glaring at your new man, mate. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off and go celebrate alone with— Oy! Isn’t that Raylen’s lover?”

Following Raibull’s pointing finger, Beacon squints at the man speaking with Laurel. Now that it’s been said, he does look vaguely familiar.

Gossip about Raylen, the famous archer of Moonscliffe, has reached Beacon’s ears, but he’s not shy toadmit that he couldn’t care less about who Raylen may or may not have been screwing. They had run into each other once, Beacon and Raylen. It hadn’t gone well. Hadn’t gonepoorly, necessarily, but the moment the archer implied Beacon looked like he’d make a satisfactory bedmate, Beacon made up an excuse to bolt. They’d never interacted since.

The only good thing about Raibull’s interjection is his suggestion that they retire early. Raylen’s man appears to have skittered away from Laurel, who is now casting a worried look toward Beacon and his offensive teammate. When their eyes meet, he offers a tentative wave.

“Wave back, you idiot,” Raibull says, knocking Beacon upside the back of his head.

“You’rethe idiot,” Beacon grumbles, even though—and he is loath to admit it—in this case, Raibull is correct. He still swings back, missing by a mile.

Raibull takes off toward the willow tree, where Laurel is gently pushing aside the branches, emerging from the silvery leaves like the unfolding of a veil. Beacon tries to catch up, but the attempt is in vain: Raibull is much taller, and his longer legs outpace Beacon in seconds.

At least when Raibull descends, he doesn’t slap Beacon’s husband on the back because no matter how much camaraderie would be meant by the gesture, it would certainly knock Laurel to the ground, and then Beacon would have to kill his own teammate. Instead, Raibull takes Laurel’s hand and bows over it like someone civilized. Fucking cad.

“I was just telling Beacon,” Raibull is saying to Laurel, “that you two seem to be suffering from the heat. Maybe going inside to celebrate together would suit you better?” He levels Beacon with a shit-eating grin.

Laurel stands frozen, eyes wide with worry. He gnaws his bottom lip, tail wrapping around his ankle as Beacon hasnoticed it does when Laurel is feeling insecure. This leaves Beacon with no choice but to rescue him.

“Raibull, you oaf, unhand my husband.” Beacon softens when he addresses Laurel. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have let him bother you.”

“He wasn’t bothering me,” Laurel says timidly.

Beacon can’t hold back from running his hand over Laurel’s brow, stroking his long bangs. His calluses catch on the fine strands, making him grimace. How in the stars is he meant to do right by this man?

“Would you… like to retire early?” Beacon forces himself to ask Laurel, painfully aware of Raibull’s stare but doing his best to ignore him. If he makes too much of a fuss, it’ll alert their other teammates that something interesting is going on.

“That would be nice, yes.” Laurel doesn’t beat around the bush with his agreement.

Beacon hates that Raibull was correct about sending them off, too. Fucker.

He takes Laurel’s hand, not sure if he should make a show of it or try to be subtle. He settles on an awkward combination of the two. They bid Beacon’s parents goodbye, and Beacon is grateful for their tenderness and tact. Not everyone is so lucky. Maura and Donlan both wish Laurel well and hug Beacon, sending them off without any passive-aggressive comments about them leaving before supper. Rodney isn’t around for them to speak to, something Beacon is rather relieved by.

As they make their way across the field, Beacon pointedly ignores his teammates, most of whom, quite thankfully, have enough brain activity to keep from hassling Laurel or heckling Beacon about what awaits them as a new couple. Maybe if Laurel looked less terrified, they would have approached more playfully, but as is, Beacon begrudgingly appreciates their attempts at being sensitive to his new husband’s nerves.

The last thing he sees before leading Laurel in the direction of the newlywed suites is Senta saluting him with her mug.Good luck, she mouths. Beacon grimaces back, even though she, much like Raibull, is right.

Beacon will need all the luck he can get.

The suite is beautiful. Laurel is beautiful. Beacon is… sweaty.

But his thoughts of suggesting they wash up—individually? Would that be insulting?—are derailed when Laurel whips off his delicate lace shawl with its dirty hem and throws it in a pile on the fine, plush carpet.

Alarmed, Beacon asks, “Are you alright?”

Laurel’s expression is mulish when he meets Beacon’s gaze and says, “I’m wonderful. You?” He doesn’t break eye contact, not even to blink.

If he’s trying to be intimidating, Beacon has no idea why. Furthermore, it isn’t working. If anything, Beacon privately enjoys the excuse to study the smudged kohl lining Laurel’s lovely amber eyes. “I’m fine,” Beacon replies.

Laurelhmphs and turns away. “Lovely to hear.” Back still facing Beacon, he begins to undress. Off goes his tunic, sliding down the colorful skin of his arms. The fine garment must have been costly, but it could have been a moth-bare rag for how he throws it in a heap on the floor. Underneath the tunic, Laurel is wearing a plain undershirt, the simple fabric stained with sweat from walking in the afternoon sun.

Beacon thinks again of offering to let Laurel use the washroom first but holds back. “Are you certain there’s nothing wrong, Laurel?”

Spinning around, Laurel demands, “Why are you asking?”