Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

”I also write.”

”You have notebooks.”

”I have work notebooks.”

Arion waited for an explanation of why that mattered.

None came.

All three joined the basket.

By the time they reached the seasonal clearance section, the bread cushion was balanced precariously over a miniature waffle maker Dean had acquired after insisting there might someday be an emergency requiring exactly one small waffle.

Arion had stopped asking questions.

That was when Dean became completely still.

His attention was fixed on an end display near the party supplies.

Arion followed his gaze.

A transparent box sat between packs of balloons and children’s craft kits.

Inside were tiny yellow rubber ducks.

A hundred of them.

Dean crossed the aisle before Arion could intervene.

His violet eyes brightened so quickly that Arion immediately understood this was different from the candles and ceramic frog.

Dean lifted the container.

”Oh.”

Arion read the label.

100 MINI DUCKS — HIDE THEM EVERYWHERE.

”No.”

Dean looked at him.

”There are a hundred.”

”I can count.”

Some wore crowns. Others had sunglasses, flowers, hats, or tiny painted expressions.

Dean shook the container gently.

The ducks rattled inside.

”This is incredible.”

Arion imagined his office.

His shoes.

Council folders.

Vehicle compartments.

Their bedroom.

Dean knew every private room in the imperial residence and possessed both patience and a highly developed sense of mischief.

Arion took the box from him.

Dean stared.

”Give them back.”

”No.”

”You don’t even know what I was going to do with them.”

”That is the problem.”

Dean reached upward.

Arion raised the box over his head.

Dean rose onto his toes and caught his forearm.

”This is an abuse of height.”

”Yes.”

”Arion.”

”No.”

Hunter appeared at the end of the aisle.

Dean pointed at him. ”Help.”

Arion handed Hunter the container.

Hunter read the label, looked once at Dean, then quietly returned it to the shelf.

Dean’s expression became genuinely betrayed.

”You work for me.”

”I protect you.”

”From tiny ducks?”

”Apparently.”

Before Dean could go back for them, Arion caught him around the waist and redirected him toward the next department.

”My ducks.”

”They were never yours.”

”They were emotionally mine.”

Arion kept walking.

Dean allowed himself to be moved for several meters before noticing that the polished grey flooring had changed to pale wood-patterned vinyl.

The shelves were lower here.

Pastel signs hung overhead.

Tiny clothes appeared on both sides of them.

Arion stopped.

Dean looked around.

Cream sleepers, knitted cardigans, miniature shoes, and soft blankets arranged beside stuffed animals and rows of bottles.

Dean slowly turned toward him.

”You dragged me into the baby section.”

”I wasn’t looking.”

”You kidnapped me away from happiness and ended up among babies.”

Arion released his waist.

Dean immediately wandered toward a display of socks.

He picked one up and spread it across his palm.

It barely covered half of it.

”This cannot belong to a real person.”

”It does.”

”It would fit Boreas’s toe.”

”Do not dress Boreas in baby clothes.”

Dean looked offended.

”I wasn’t going to.”

Arion gave him a look that suggested three years of marriage had taught him better than to accept that answer without reservation.

Dean returned the tiny sock to its hook, but instead of moving on, his attention drifted along the wall.

There were little shirts arranged by size, knitted cardigans with absurdly small buttons, soft trousers folded beneath them, and winter coats that looked like miniature versions of things Arion actually wore. One in particular caught Dean’s attention.

It was made from black wool with a high collar and a simple cut.

Dean reached out and touched the sleeve.

The image arrived without permission.

A child with Arion’s dark hair.

Those ridiculous golden eyes.

Perhaps a little boy standing beside Arion in a tiny black coat, staring solemnly at everyone from somewhere around Arion’s knee.

Dean smiled before he realized he was doing it.

Arion noticed immediately.

”What?”

”Nothing.”

Dean moved his fingers over the small collar.

The imagined child changed slightly in his head.

Dark hair that refused to stay neat.

Arion’s eyes.

Arion’s serious little expression.

And, because apparently Dean’s imagination had no concern for his future peace, Arion’s personality too.

Quiet, stubborn, and watching everything.

The sort of child who would say almost nothing while secretly deciding whether everyone around him was competent.

Dean’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

That was new.

Not the idea of children.

They had discussed children before in the vague, distant way married people discussed things that belonged to some future version of themselves. Eventually. When life settled. When beast seasons stopped attempting to reorganize their plans. When neither of them was spending half the year dealing with catastrophes.

This was different.

Dean looked up at Arion.

His husband stood beside him in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, one hand still hooked around the shopping basket while the black coat opened slightly across his chest. His hair had become messier since they entered the mall, probably because Dean had pushed it away from his forehead twice without thinking.

Dean suddenly wanted a smaller version of him.

The realization was so immediate that he said it before deciding whether it should remain private.

”I want one that looks like you.”

Arion went still.

Dean looked back toward the tiny coat.

”Dark hair. Gold eyes.”

Arion continued staring.

Dean’s smile softened.

”And your personality.”

That finally produced a reaction.

”My personality?”

”Yes.”

Arion looked genuinely concerned now.

Dean laughed quietly. ”Why are you looking at me like that?”

”I was considering whether you require medical attention.”

Dean turned fully toward him.

”My husband’s personality is apparently so terrible that wanting our hypothetical child to inherit it means I’ve lost my mind?”

”You complain about my personality every day.”

”I complain because you’re annoying.”

”That sounds incompatible with your current plan.”

Dean reached for the front of Arion’s sweater and tugged him closer.

”You’re calm. You notice everything. You’re loyal. You pretend you don’t find things funny when you do, and you have the patience of a saint with me even when you’re pretending you don’t.”

Arion’s expression shifted.

Dean suddenly became aware of how soft his own voice had become.

That was embarrassing.

He released Arion’s sweater.

”And I think a tiny version of you would be cute.”

Arion looked down at the little black coat.

Then at Dean.

”A tiny version of me.”

”Yes.”

”With my personality?”

Dean smiled. ”Unfortunately.”

Arion’s free hand settled at Dean’s waist and pulled him closer.

Dean allowed it, resting briefly against his chest while shoppers moved around them and quiet music played somewhere above the rows of baby clothes.

Arion kissed his temple.

Dean looked at the tiny coat again over Arion’s arm.

Someday.

The thought sat surprisingly comfortably in him.

Then something yellow caught his eye across the department.

Dean froze.

Arion felt it.

”No.”

Dean lifted his head.

Arion tightened his arm around his waist.

”Dean.”

But Dean had already slipped free.

”Ducks!”

He bolted toward the bath section.

Arion closed his eyes.

The soft moment had lasted perhaps thirty seconds.

That was probably for the best.