Chapter 325 - The departure

Chapter 325: Chapter 325 - The departure

The morning of the departure was chaos.

Servants ran back and forth, drivers shouted at each other, and the entire residence smelled of horses and dust. Eric stood at the courtyard entrance with his peacock-feather fan in one hand and watched the convoy assemble like a general surveying troops.

Except Eric had never actually surveyed troops, so mostly he was just enjoying the view.

The carriage—because of course it was a carriage, only the best for the general’s wife—was an ornate wooden thing with painted panels and cushioned seats, drawn by two well-fed horses. Eric had been assured it was the most comfortable vehicle in the residence. ℴ

It was a lie.

The first hour was fine. The second hour was tolerable. By the third hour, Eric had decided that whoever designed carriages had clearly never actually ridden in one.

The road to the imperial hunting grounds was not smooth. It was rutted and rocky and seemed personally offended by the existence of wheels. Every bump sent him jolting against the wooden frame, every dip rattled his teeth, and the cushioned seat underneath him had apparently been stuffed with rocks disguised as padding.

Eric braced one hand against the panel and fanned himself with increasing aggression.

"This is terrible," he announced to no one in particular.

The driver, outside, did not answer.

His clothes were getting wrinkled. His hair was getting messy. His back ached in places he hadn’t known existed. And the fan was doing absolutely nothing because the air inside the carriage was hot and stale and smelled faintly of varnish.

Eric slumped against the window and stared balefully out at the passing scenery.

Ryan, meanwhile, was riding ahead on his horse.

Of course he was. The man was a general. He looked stupidly handsome up there too, straight-backed and effortless, his dark cloak moving with the wind. Eric had watched him earlier and felt a pang of envy so sharp it bordered on resentment.

Eric glared at the back of his husband’s head through the carriage window.

Enjoying yourself up there, are you?

Then the carriage hit another rut, and Eric was bounced so hard his teeth clacked together.

He made a small, miserable sound and rubbed his sore elbow.

Outside, something changed.

The steady rhythm of hoofbeats slowed, then stopped.

Eric heard voices—low, brief, the clipped tones of soldiers.

Then the carriage door opened.

Eric looked up, ready to complain, and found Ryan standing there.

He blinked.

"What are you—"

Ryan handed the reins of his horse off to a nearby subordinate without a word. The soldier looked startled, then took them and fell back in line. Ryan turned and climbed into the carriage, ducking his head under the low frame, and settled himself onto the bench across from Eric.

Eric stared at him.

"You’re... in here."

"I noticed you were uncomfortable."

Eric’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

"The great General Ryan," he said slowly, "abandoned his noble steed to sit in a bumpy wooden box with his whiny wife."

Ryan looked at him. "Are you whining?"

"Yes. Obviously."

Ryan made a small sound that might have been a laugh, and Eric stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

The carriage lurched into motion again. Eric jolted sideways, and this time, Ryan caught him by the shoulder before he could hit the wall.

"Come here," Ryan said, and pulled him over.

Eric found himself relocated—dragged, really—until he was sitting beside Ryan instead of across from him, their shoulders pressed together. Ryan’s arm stayed behind him, braced against the back of the seat, keeping him from sliding.

Eric’s heart did something stupid.

"This is better," Ryan said, matter-of-fact.

Eric swallowed. "Better for who?"

"You."

The carriage hit another bump. Ryan’s arm tightened, steadying him, and Eric didn’t jolt at all.

Eric leaned sideways, slowly, testing. Ryan’s shoulder was solid and warm and didn’t move. So Eric leaned further, until his head was resting against it, until the whole of his weight had settled against the man’s side.

Ryan didn’t push him away.

The road kept rattling beneath them, but somehow it wasn’t nearly as bad anymore. The motion became steady, almost rhythmic, and Ryan’s shoulder absorbed every jolt before it could reach Eric’s spine. Warmth radiated off the man, and Eric’s eyelids grew heavy.

He yawned.

"Wake me when we get there," he mumbled.

"Alright."

Eric’s eyes drifted shut.

The last thing he was aware of, before sleep swallowed him up, was Ryan shifting slightly to make him more comfortable—adjusting his arm, angling himself so Eric’s head wouldn’t slip.

Having a husband really did have its perks.

And then he was asleep.

Ryan didn’t move.

For a long while he simply sat there, arm braced against the seat, watching the sleeping man against his shoulder. Eric’s breathing had evened out into something slow and soft, and every time the carriage swayed, his head shifted a little before Ryan’s arm steadied him back into place.

Ryan found himself timing the bumps.

Whenever the road roughened, he’d lean a fraction of an inch into Eric, bracing him. Whenever it smoothed, he’d ease back. It became a quiet rhythm, the kind a man could lose himself in.

Eric’s fan had slipped from his hand and landed on the floor. Ryan bent to pick it up—carefully, so as not to disturb him—and set it on the seat beside them.

The peacock feathers were ridiculous.

So was Eric.

So was the fact that Ryan had climbed into a carriage he had no business being in, in front of his own soldiers, and was now being used as a pillow by a man who had spent the entire morning insulting the residence’s carriage design.

His subordinates were definitely going to talk.

Ryan decided he didn’t care.

Eric stirred in his sleep and made a small noise, nuzzling closer. One of his hands had curled loosely into Ryan’s sleeve, holding on like Ryan might disappear if he let go.

Ryan looked down at that hand for a long time.

Then, very slowly, he let his thumb brush once across Eric’s shoulder—just once, light enough that Eric wouldn’t feel it even if he were awake.

Eric didn’t wake.

The carriage rolled on, and Ryan kept very still, and somewhere behind them the convoy followed its steady, rattling path toward the hunting grounds.

Hours passed.

The sun climbed, then began to sink. The road grew flatter, the trees thinner, and the air carried a faint new smell—grass and pine and cold river water. Ryan recognized it. They were close.

Eric was still asleep against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, mouth slightly open. It was, objectively, the least dignified way a general’s wife had ever traveled.

Ryan thought it suited him.

He glanced toward the window and watched the tree line pass.

"Eric," he said quietly. "We’re nearly there."

Eric mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed deeper.

Ryan sighed—and, for the first time all journey, allowed himself a small, private smile that no one else could see.