The Novelty Maker (6 page)

                "Right," Cole said, opening his mouth to offer to help source some startup materials. He shut his mouth with a click when he remembered Harlowe's vehement proclamation that he wanted to do it on his own.

                "What did you need to talk to me about?" Harlowe asked, fidgeting with the edge of his mask to settle it into place. "I'll be finishing your commission, so don't worry about that."

                "That wasn't it." Cole shook his head, not sure how to tell Harlowe anything. Harlowe gave him an odd look when Cole didn't say anything more, and Cole wished he'd practiced what to say so that he wouldn't choke at the last minute like this. "I'm sorry."

                "For what?" Harlowe asked, baffled. He ducked his head slightly. "If this is about the other day, I should be apologizing to you, not—"

                "No, it's not," Cole said quietly, then finally just said it. "Dwight was sending you those letters."

                Harlowe stilled, so obviously he knew what letters Cole was talking about. Cole braced himself for Harlowe's inevitable outburst, thankful that at least there wasn't anything readily available for Harlowe to throw.

                "Who's Dwight?" Harlowe asked, his eyebrow scrunching down in confusion.

                "My brother," Cole replied slowly, wondering how he'd never mentioned Dwight by name to Harlowe.

                "Why would your brother send me love letters?" Harlowe still seemed more confused than angry, but Cole wasn't betting on that lasting. While Cole debated what to say, Harlowe prompted, "Cole?"

                "Because he's an idiot," Cole said, because that was true and the easiest part of it to say. Running a hand through his hair, Cole stepped away, pacing in agitation. "Because he's an idiot and meddlesome and he hates me."

                "You're not making any sense," Harlowe said. Cole jumped in surprise, startled to find that Harlowe had followed him and was right there. He didn't seem upset, at least not yet.

                "He thought," Cole started, then shut his eyes and made himself say it, "that by sending you letters, he would make me jealous enough to tell you that I like you. A lot."

                "That's not funny," Harlowe said, his voice somewhat unsteady. Cole opened his eyes, his heart sinking to find Harlowe obviously upset.

                "I know. I'm sorry," Cole said. He didn't know what to do, what to say to make it better, and he should have thrown Dwight in the river rather than telling Harlowe. "I didn't want to tell you, but Dwight said he would if I didn't."

                "Shut up," Harlowe snapped, and there was the anger Cole had been waiting for. "It's not funny. If you're just going to be like everyone else, you can get out now and not come back."

                "What?" Cole stared at Harlowe, wondering if the fumes from the paint had gone to his head because Harlowe's words didn't make any sense. "Like who?"

                Harlowe pulled off the leather mask, throwing it at Cole, who fumbled it. It fell to the ground, and Harlowe gestured to his half-ruined face with a short choppy motion. "You're lying, like everyone else does. Get out."

                Turning, Harlowe stalked away, back towards the wall he'd been painting. Comprehension clicked into place for Cole, and anger stirred in the pit of his stomach. Acting purely on instinct, Cole followed after, grabbing Harlowe's arm and pulling him around. He braced himself to be hit, and kissed Harlowe before Harlowe had the chance to protest.

                It was clumsy, awkward, and barely a real kiss because Harlowe stumbled a step away from Cole, barely keeping his balance from where Cole had spun him around. Harlowe did hit him, smacking his chest, but Cole didn't let go.

                "I'm not lying," Cole said fiercely, staring at Harlowe and willing him to believe it. He let go of Harlowe, taking a step back. "I'm not. Why do you keep thinking I'm such a villain? I don't care about your face, but you probably don't believe me when I say that either." 

                Harlowe stared at him, and without the mask in place, it was easy to see the uncertainty plainly written across his face.

                "I'll go, then," Cole said, when Harlowe didn't say anything. "I won't bother you anymore."

                "You don't bother me," Harlowe said, the words barely audible in the quiet of the shop. Cole snorted in disbelief, because it certainly seemed like everything he did bothered Harlowe. Harlowe sighed, then reached out and grabbed Cole's wrist, dragging him across the shop towards the back door.

                "What are you—"

                "Shut up," Harlowe said, tone brooking no argument. He didn't let go of Cole's wrist, his grip firm and tight, and Cole decided not to question it, no longer sure what was going on.

                Harlowe reached the door set in the back of the room, and pushed it open. It was a tiny office, as Cole had supposed. It was about a man's height in length, and twice that in breadth. There was a small desk set up in the far corner, and a few boxes of half-finished machines and parts stacked on the floor. Cole recognized some of Harlowe's tools scattered about, but Harlowe didn't give him a chance to study the room, dragging him over to the desk.

                "What is it?" Cole asked, surveying the square novelty box set in the center of the desk. The outside edges were still rough, the silver design on the outside only done on the one side.

                "Open it," Harlowe said, finally letting go of Cole's wrist. Cole glanced at him, but Harlowe just looked determined, which wasn't really useful for Cole.

                "Is this the secret project?" Cole asked, tracing his fingers over the edges of the lid.

                "Yes, now open it," Harlowe said, familiar impatience leaking into his voice.

                Cole followed the order, tipping the lid up and back. Soft strains of music filled the air, tinkling, light, and sweet. It wasn't a song Cole recognized, but he was distracted by the motions of the dancing figurines. There were two of them, on opposite ends of the round surface of the box. They moved in slow, meandering arcs,  one on each side of a large circle. They stayed completely opposite each other, and the box ticked softly every time they passed a quarter mark.

                "It's a clock!" Cole said delightedly, finally recognizing the pattern. "Does it keep going with the lid shut, to keep the time?"

                "It will," Harlowe said, reaching past Cole and compressing a switch on the side of the box, out of range of the dancers. The music stopped, but the figurines kept moving. "There's clearance, but right now they run out of power after about an hour. Faster if the music is going."

                "Winding is too archaic?" Cole asked, amused when Harlowe scowled at that suggestion.

                "It's ridiculously archaic," Harlowe said. "I wanted to try that new steam compression engine Doctor Micawber invented last year, but I didn't have the parts yet, and I'm not sure of the schematics for it."

                "Steam, really? I had heard that was too expensive for mainstream application," Cole said, then shook his head. "But what does the box have to do with anything?"

                "It was always meant for you," Harlowe said, his mouth grimacing oddly. "I told myself that I'd tell you when it was done, since it was going to be months and months before I could finish it."

                "Tell me what?" Cole asked, watching as Harlowe folded the lid back onto the box. The music chimed a few chords without him compressing the switch, but the lid shut it off again.

                "That I like you more than I should," Harlowe said, looking up from the box. "It … no one can look past this," Harlowe touched his scarred face, "and I didn't think anyone would, not even you."

                "I don't care about—"

                "I know," Harlowe said, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "You never asked, you never gawked or tried to look under the mask. I kept waiting for you to be like everyone else, and you never were. I'm a sideshow—"

                "You are not," Cole snapped. "Stop—"

                "Shut up," Harlowe said, much less crossly than he had snapped the words earlier. "I've had patrons before, you know. They thought parading me around was the greatest thing, or that by sponsoring my work they were entitled to look under the mask or worse."

                "I wouldn't—"

                "I know," Harlowe said, "Now shut up and let me talk."

                Cole mimed zipping his mouth shut, making Harlowe smile again.

                "I've been burned before by sponsors, so I don't want to do that again," Harlowe said, leaning against the desk. "Which is why I wouldn't ask you for help with the shop." Cole opened his mouth to protest that, but Harlowe talked over him. "I know, you'd help and not expect anything back, but that's not right either."

                Cole shut his mouth, not pleased with the imposed rule that he couldn't talk.

                "I was sure you were sending the letters, at first," Harlowe said quietly. "You read that first one. It was over-the-top and insincere and obviously not serious."

                "It seemed serious to me," Cole said, scowling. He still owed Dwight a good punch or two.

                "If I find out you're lying about this, I'm going to throw you off the cliffs," Harlowe said, watching Cole closely.

                "I mean it," Cole said, suddenly nervous even though he'd already thrown himself at Harlowe once. "I do."

                "I believe you," Harlowe said. He stood up, away from the desk, and Cole met him halfway, stepping close and kissing Harlowe soft and sweet, like he'd imagined doing a thousand times. Cole reached up, cupping Harlowe's face—and Harlowe pulled back when Cole touched his scarred cheek, obviously startled.

                "Sorry, should I not—"

                "It's fine," Harlowe said at the same time. "Sorry."

                Cole reached out slowly, running his fingers over the scars. They were peculiar—not knife scars and not smooth burn scars. "Do you have any feeling?"

                Harlowe laughed, somewhat unsteadily. "Not really? It's more of a pressure than any real feeling. I can't tell hot or cold, or really tell if you're moving your hand."

                "Do you want me to not touch?" Cole asked, dropping his hand to his side. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

                "Shut up, of course you can touch," Harlowe said. He hesitantly kissed Cole, a whisper of lips against Cole's, and Cole grinned, unable to stop the surge of elation that washed through him. Harlowe was kissing him! Cole returned the kiss, moving his hands to the somewhat safer ground of Harlowe's hips, pulling Harlowe closer and drawing the kiss deeper.

                Harlowe shifted closer himself, wrapping one arm around Cole's neck and grabbing onto the front of Cole's jacket with the other. He tasted sweet, like candied nuts, with a sharp, metallic tang lingering underneath. He kissed hesitant and slow, content to let Cole guide the way, and Cole was sure he'd never forget the feel of Harlowe in his arms, not in a thousand lifetimes.

                Unfortunately, the need to breathe became a priority, and Cole broke away, pressing kisses to Harlowe's jaw as he tried to catch his breath. The soft, encouraging noises Harlowe was making weren't helping his concentration, and Cole wondered just how long they could stay back here before someone came looking. Was forever too long?

                "I really, really hate to say this," Harlowe said, his grip on Cole's jacket tightening when Cole pressed his lips to the spot where Harlowe's jaw met his neck, "but I do have to get the shop painted today."

                Cole groaned, but didn't let Harlowe go. "Are you sure?"

                "Unfortunately." Harlowe slowly uncurled his fingers from the front of Cole's jacket. "You could help. It would go more quickly with two people."

                "Manual labor?" Cole wrinkled his nose. "Only for you."

                Harlowe laughed, pushing at him impatiently. "Come on, the sooner it's done, the sooner we can find something else to do. Unless you have plans this afternoon?"

                "No, I'm all yours," Cole promised.

Sasha L. Miller spends most of her time writing, reading, or playing with all things website design. She loves telling stories, especially romance, because there’s nothing better than giving people their happily ever afters. When not writing, she spends time cooking, harassing her roommates, and playing with her cats.