Streets of Arklow

Lasair had waited.

In sunshine.
In rain.
Every day.

Each morning he braided his hair, adorned the glade with fresh wildflowers, sang the melodies Nuada had taught him, and never felt bitterness.
He collected mushrooms not worrying if they would spoil first. He wrote little poems in charcoal on bark, knowing the rain might wash them away. He dozed curled up against a warm stone and dreamed of Nuada's gentle smile.
When he finally heard Nuada coming through the brush, he knew it was different before he saw him. He turned at the sound, light still blooming in his chest.

Nuada came through the trees in a fury, darkened by soot… and blood. Lasair had been kneeling near a mossy trunk, basket half full of mushrooms, a smudge of dirt on his nose.
“Danu, sáir mé! Are you alright?!”
Nuada stopped short, and Lasair felt like a shadow had been cast on his heart. He looked older somehow, sharper around the eyes, tighter in the jaw. There was something dangerous in the way he looked at Lasair, something Nuada spent too long holding back, refusing to name, that had seeded in hope, and bloomed in fear.

Nuada drew his sword.

Lasairs’ response was too casual. “Oh, I don’t think we should spar, Nuada. I’ve missed you! You look tired and-”
Nuada had closed the distance while he spoke, and he slashed the basket out of Lasairs hands, sending wicker and mushrooms scattering.
Lasair moved to collect them, but Nuada stayed him with the tip of his blade.

“Go.” His voice was trembling.

Lasair looked past the sword at his throat like it wasn’t even there. “Go? You don’t look fit to race, Nuada.”
Nuada's face twisted, and he dropped his form, turning away. He paced, sword still in hand.
“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” Lasair asked softly.
“Everything.” Nuada said. “You. Me. This. It’s a dream, Lasair, and I’ve woken up. You need to, aswell.”
Lasair dusted his hands against his léine. “But we said-”
“I know what we said!” Nuada’s voice cracked. “We can’t keep playing at stories and songs! You don’t understand what they’ll do! You have no idea what hate looks like.”
Lasair blinked, and stood firm. “So, is that what you’re doing now? Trying to show me?”
Nuada’s mind reeled, and he couldn’t find the words to explain, but did it matter? He faced Lasair, steadied himself a moment, before stepping forward and shoving him back. Hard.
“Fight me.” He said, choking back tears.
“What?!” Lasair felt a pain he didn’t understand.
Nuada shoved him again. “Fight back, Lasair.”
“You’re scaring me.” Lasair cried freely.
“Good!” Nuada screamed. “You should be! You should be terrified!”
“Of you?!”
“Yes! Of all of it! Of all of us!”
“But you said fear turned to hate. I don’t want to live in a world where I have to feel hatred.”
For a moment, Nuada didn’t move. He looked Lasair up and down, and it was too much to take. The soft openness, the faint flush of his cheeks, the hopeful glint in his eyes, undimmed by Nuada's fury. He looked away sharply.
“You’re so beautiful.”
He’d said it to himself, and Lasair didn’t hear him.  “What?”
“Nothing.” Nuada shook his head, hard.
Lasair took a step forward. “I don’t understand, Nuada.”
His voice dropped low. “You never understand. Grow up, Lasair. Before you get yourself hurt in truth.”
“You don’t want me to get hurt but you’re hurting me right now.” He was thoughtful, then spoke bluntly. “Are you afraid of them hurting me… or of loving me and not stopping them?”
Nuada stepped back like he’d been struck. His jaw clenched, his throat moved, but no words came. He looked at Lasairs’ lips and a breath escaped him… before he turned… and walked. Slowly. Not storming. Just… leaving. Lost. Defeated.

Broken.

Lasair’s knees shook as moonlit tears streamed down his face. He collected the scattered mushrooms, mending his basket as best as he could. And he stayed.
The next day.
…And the day after.