Page 48 of How To Survive This Fairytale

“Hans,” says Cyrus, stepping toward you, ready to be whatever you need, but you shake your head.The pain isn’t the point of the story.

“The food was enchanted.The more I tasted, the more I wanted.It’s why I… struggle.And the Fair Queen held feasts every mealtime.It was a nightmare.I had to ask the apothecary for a medicine that would kill my sense of taste just so I could get through it feeling sensible.”

“Hans, I’m so sorry.”

“She wasn’t a witch,” you say, “though I think she was as close to being one withoutbeing oneas anyone can get.That sort of medicine, it’s…”

“I understand,” he says.“Half-medicine, half-potion.A little bit science, a little bit spell.”

“I think,” you say, “she could give you what you want.”

Silence.

He stares at you for a moment that stretches into so many moments—into a future he never let himself imagine, into dreams that made him weep for hours upon waking.

“Hans,” he whispers.

“I don’t know for certain,” you say.“I can’t promisewhatshe can do, but I think it’s worth trying.I had a friend once who told me I should do what I had to to make my life bearable.I’m wondering now, why stop atbearable.”

He’s still staring at you.

Staring at you as though you’ve changed your shape.As though he’s seeing something new.

“You’d do that for me?”

“When it comes to you,” you say, “there isn’t much I wouldn’t do.”

His lower lip wobbles.He looks away from you.He steps away to begin pacing the floor, but he comes right back.His hand snatches your chin, and his mouth crushes against yours, unyielding, years of yearning and grief folded between newfound hope.When he pulls away, he’s wild, surprised by himself.Immediately contrite.

“Hans, forgive m?—”

You tug him back in, one hand on the back of his neck, the other holding his hips flush against yours, your kiss just as bruising and desperate.He whimpers into your mouth, melts his whole body against yours, wraps his wing around your broad shoulders.Heat and hurry.Need and want.Two wishes colliding, bursting into stardust in your veins.

“I love you,” you say.You caress his cheek with your palm and tuck errant hair behind his ear.You cup his jaw and turn him so he’s looking at you,reallylooking at you.“I love you too much to let the rest of your days be spent in misery.”

“Hans,” he says.“Hans?—”

Words dissolve.He clutches you tight and kisses you again, again, again, mouth open to yours, until you taste salt on his lips and pull away to find tear stains on his cheeks.Your gaze softens; he tucks his head against your neck and weeps.He clutches you the way oysters clutch their pearls, the way dragons clutch their hoard, the way tree roots clutch the soil.Precious.Tethered.Rooted.And heisrooted to you, rootedinyou, as you are to him.

“Hans,” he says, voice watery, but recovering, “When do we leave?”

“What?”

“Is tonight too soon?”

“Cyrus, wait, no,” you say, “I’ll go alone.It’s dangerous through the woods.”

“You can’t do this for me without taking me with you.”

“It’s not safe.”

“It’s not safe for you, either,” he argues.He lifts his head from his shoulder.Red-rimmed eyes, wet as glass, meet yours.“Nowhere in the Fair Queen’s lands will be safe for you.”

“If you’re with me, they’ll kill you too.”

“They can’t kill me without starting a war with my sister.If I’m with you, I can shield us both.”

“They’ll kill me and send you home.”