Mahogany and Teakwood

Chapter 2: Gloxinia

it doesn't mean much

it doesn't mean anything at all

the life i've left behind me is a cold room

Virgil stirred to wide-eyed awareness twice in the night, thinking he heard a door creak and click closed. Each time, he felt too exhausted to get up and reluctantly settled down once the adrenaline wore off. The third time he opened his eyes, the sky outside his bedroom window glowed an early morning blue, and he desperately needed the restroom.

Groaning, he grabbed his hoodie from the headboard he'd slung it across the night before, pulled it around him, and padded across the hallway. Once finished, he tiptoed cautiously into the main room, finding it exactly as he'd left it the night before.

Was he still alone? If the sounds he'd heard were Logan coming in super late, the dude was probably still asleep.

Hell, I should still be asleep.

Virgil wandered blearily into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, more out of curiosity than actual hunger, and let out a surprised laugh.

"Holy troll shit, that is a lot of jelly." He pulled out a jar to read the label: Crofters Organic.

Oh. Well, that explained the postscript.

The sound of the front door opening and closing startled him to his feet.

Virgil hastily replaced the jar, lining it back up next to its dozen or so neighbors. Closing the fridge door, he turned to lock eyes over the counter with the most gorgeous person he'd ever seen in his life. His heart stuttered. The newcomer dumped a keyring on the counter—shit, this was Logan?—and adjusted a pair of half-moon glasses.

"You must be Virgil," he said in a deep, tranquil voice, stepping out of a pair of worn athletic shoes.

Virgil made a croaking noise that tried to become a greeting before getting stuck halfway down his throat. Logan, meanwhile, swept through the apartment, disappeared into the furthest room, and reemerged with a towel. Sweat glistened on his bare chest, bark dark and beech smooth, and sparkled in black hair braided into a dozen wavy rows against his scalp. The guy had one of those sculpted builds composed of broad, lean planes and bold, sensual lines.

A charcoal artist's dream to sketch; a little awkward to hug.

Between the normalcy of the apartment and the weirdly formal note, Virgil had forgotten what it meant for Logan to be half faery; half Court Fae, in fact, if his looks were any clue. Such faeries were, as a rule, heartbreakingly beautiful.

Upon closer examination, Logan's non-human heritage was obvious. Ears that swept up and back to points on either side of his head, clearly visible to Virgil's changeling gaze. Frost white streaks twining through his braids. Eyes that gazed a little too deep, burned a little too wild behind his glasses. Those fae, prismatic irises held an explosion of frost, indigo, and smoke that blended into a deep slate gray.

Virgil swallowed hard, forcing his poor gay eyes to stop staring. He knew he ought to say something, but his addled brain had forgotten how to operate his mouth.

"Apologies for my unkempt state." Logan patted himself down. "I always do my running in the morning before it gets too hot."

"Uh...yeah." Virgil wrenched his gaze from smooth muscles and a graceful sweeping collarbone to Logan's stormy eyes, so striking in that dark face. "No, I mean...that's cool."