FIC: Weight in Gold, PG, Bill/Tom, 1/1

[th_fanfic_mods]

Title: Weight in Gold
Author: musique_style
Pairing(s): Bill/Tom
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters involved do not belong to me, and I am not making any sort of profit from this story.
Warnings: none
Summary: Most everyone is familiar with the tale of Jack, the brave young man who climbed the beanstalk, and outsmarted the nefarious giant. Few are familiar, however, with the fact that Jack has a little brother named Tom, who’s been living in his shadow for years. In order to make a name for himself, Tom decides to grow a beanstalk of his own and finish the job Jack started years ago. He’s in hot pursuit of the golden harp that cut Jack’s adventure short years ago, but what he finds makes Tom wonder if he really wants to complete his quest. Tom had planned on bringing the harp home as the spoils of his search. But as it turns out, the golden harp is a smart mouthed, sultry instrument that goes by the name of Bill.
FQF Prompt: Tom goes up the Beanstalk, and the Golden Harp's name is Bill, who actively cooperates in the theft. - submitted by fyredancer
Author's notes: I had a lot of fun with this! I veered from the prompt a tiny bit, but I really hope that you like it. <3


Great. Way to go, Tom, Tom thought to himself bitterly. He’d just had to climb the beanstalk. He’d had to decide that he wanted some attention for himself. He couldn’t have just been happy living in his older brother’s shadow. Oh, no. Tom had to want to be an individual.

For the first time in a long time, he was ready to acknowledge a tidbit of truth that he often stubbornly ignored when he’d made a mistake: Tom had made a stupid choice and now, he was in trouble.

As in, serious trouble. Tom was in I-climbed-a-beanstalk-and-entered-the-house-of-a-giant-and-am-about-to-be-found trouble.

“Fee fi fo fum! I smell the blood of an Englisman,” the giant bellowed, and Tom gulped. He shrunk back, even though he knew that he couldn’t be seen. “Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!” he growled menacingly.

“Oh god,” Tom whispered to himself, the color draining from his face. The only thing keeping him calm was the fact that his brother, Jack, had been through this situation before--several times-and had lived to tell the tale. Not only that, but he’d become a legend; he was hailed as a hero.

That, he stubbornly thought, was the reason Tom was in this whole mess to begin with.

Tom had been but a child when his older brother had returned from the marketplace after trading a cow for three magical beans; three magical beans that, after their mother had thrown them out the window, had sprouted overnight into an enormous beanstalk.

All he could remember was Jack returning every night with something new; a hen that laid golden eggs, and money bags-both of which had eventually been gifted by Jack and their mother as village share, so that none would suffer from impoverishment. It’d been enough to enable the farmers to purchase livestock, the proper supplies, and all sorts of exotic vegetables, and in turn, that had affected everything else. Their humble village, which Tom recalled as drought stricken, had been transformed into a modest yet thriving one.

Ten years later, and everyone in the village still regaled Jack’s story and hailed him as a hero.

Ten years later, and Tom was seventeen years old-a man-yet still regarded as the kid brother of The Legendary Jack.

He’d was sick tired of being viewed as the kid that he’d once been. And as much as Tom loved his older brother, he was good and tired of everyone comparing him to his heroic older brother, and regaling him with the full story as if Tom hadn’t been living in the same home as Jack had. Especially the girls.

… Oh, especially the girls.

Ever since Jack had left to further his studies at a trade school, Tom had never heard the end of it. Everyone missed good ol’ Jack; everyone loved good ol’ Jack. No one could ever compare to good ol’ Jack, and all Tom would ever be, apparently, was Tom The Kid Brother of Good Ol’ Jack.

That’d been all it’d taken. Tom had decided to make a legacy of his own. He was proud to be Jack’s brother, and had worn the title of Kid Brother with pride as a kid, but now, he was seventeen years old-a man-and he wanted to be known for something he himself had done, not something his brother had done years past.

It hadn’t taken him long to figure out what to do, either. While growing up, Tom would stay up late, letting Jack regale the tales of the cruel old giant and the castle. Tom would listen with wide eyes as Jack described being hidden in the cupboard by the giants wife, a kind giantess named Simone. The close calls of nearly being caught by the giant each time he’d sought to take something left Tom’s heart racing with the thrill. The one thing Jack would cringe and moan about was The Final Night-the night he’d returned from the world in the sky, empty handed.

“I’d been so close to getting that harp!” Jack would cringe, every time, burying his hands in his brown hair as if he was reliving the “failure” over and over again. Apparently, when Jack had grabbed the harp, it’d immediately started screaming until the giant had awoken and chased Jack all the way back down to their world.

Thus, Tom knew exactly what his plan of action would be. Within a day, he’d ventured into town, purchased some magic beans and planted them, and climbed the resulting beanstalk with fantasies of instilling his own legacy.

For he was going to get that golden harp.

Getting into the house hadn’t been tough, but he hadn’t realized exactly what he would be up against until he’d been caught by the giant’s wife, not three steps into the house. Jack had caused Simone to become wary of human guests, and because of that, convincing her that he meant no harm had been tricky, but in the end, he’d succeeded.

And just as she had been readying to break a shortbread cookie into a piece suitable for him, thunder had filled the room. Quickly, Simone had put Tom in the oven, insisting that he remain there until she came back for him. She’d left the oven open just a peek, and that had been that.

And now, Tom was In Big Trouble.

“Where is he?” the giant, Jorg, demanded, his deep voice making vibrations that shook Tom. “I smell him. I’ll use eat him with my supper.”

“Jorg, I’m insulted!” Simone scolded, and when she made her way close to the stove, Tom shrunk back into the furthest corner. There was a rumbling sound above his head, and then, the sound of footsteps making their way away from him. “That is your supper you smell! I made you a mincemeat pie, you lout, and you compare the smell of it to a human?” She sniffed indignantly. Her words were punctuated by a deep, metallic clank, and then silence.

“Oh… I’m sorry, dear, I just… I could’ve sworn I smelled…” Simone humphed indignantly, and the giant fell silent. “You know I think humans smell delicious,” he tried after a moment, his tone sheepish.

“Just eat,” Simone said, and apparently, Jorg was wise enough to do so.

The air was filled with the occasional crash of cutlery against a plate, but it wasn’t doing anything to sooth Tom’s evermore anxious nerves, or slow his rapidly beating heart.

Tom wasn’t very good at working under pressure. When he’d attended school, the thought of procrastinating on his studies had made his skin crawl. He’d never seen the sense in putting off his chores until the last possible moment. If he had a task, he’d start sooner rather than later. He wasn’t under that same type of pressure, but right now, sitting in the oven of a giant who wanted to eat him wasn’t faring Tom much better.

The minutes felt like they were slogging by, and Tom’s anxiety was only increasing. What if it’d all been a trick and Jorg already knew Tom was in there, and was planning to eat him for dessert? What if Simone changed her mind about being merciful and turned on the oven?

Every passing second left Tom more and more convinced that he was going to die.

His mother and Jack would know what had happened. It felt like it’d been hours since he’d departed his world, and surely they’d seen the beanstalk, noticed Tom’s absence, and realized what had happened. Were they praying steadfastly for his safe return, or were they already mourning him? Was his mother already sobbing, convinced that her youngest son was already gone? Tom swallowed thickly at the thought of his mother in such anguish, and guilt tugged at him. If only he’d stayed home… if only he’d been content to live in Jack’s shadow…

He supposed it’d be a good idea to come to terms with the possibility that he might die, but the thought of it made him sick.

A thunderous scraping sound met his ears, jolting Tom out of his thoughts, and leaving him scrambling towards the darkest corner of the oven with his heart pounding ferociously.

“Thank you, Simone, for a delicious meal. I couldn’t do a better job if I tried,” came Jorg’s voice.

“Believe me, I know,” Simone replied wryly. When they both laughed, oddly enough, it relaxed Tom the slightest bit. “Shall I get bring the harp?”

Tom’s ears perked up at that. Could she be talking about the golden harp?

“Please,” Jorg said, and then, there was the sound of fading thunder, and silence.

As Tom shakily crept closer to peer out of the oven, he couldn’t help but realize how utterly human they sounded. They might as well have been the neighbors, or any couple in Tom’s world.

Careful not to be seen, Tom peered out of the oven. Simone was out of sight, but Jorg was sitting at the table. From the angle, Tom could only see large feet and legs, and the top of a head of short, dark hair. Jorg didn’t look so bad, Tom reasoned with himself. But the more logical part of himself was reminding him that though Jorg didn’t appear to be bad, didn’t mean that he didn’t still intimidate Tom to the point of terror.

Quickly and quietly, he scrambled back to the rear of the oven, curling up in the corner with his knees pulled up to his chest. His forehead was damp with sweat, and his breathing was shaky. He was terrified, but at the same time, it was part of the rush. Tom, like Jack, had always been a thrill seeker, and if it meant that he had to live a few minutes of his life feeling terrified, then so be it. The more scared he got, the better the story he came away with; it was the rule of thumb. Judging by how Tom felt right now, he was going to have an amazing tale to take back to his friends.

And the girls. They’d be very impressed.

The sound of Simone’s voice was a surprising comfort to Tom, and he crept forward again, peeking out at the scene. Simone had just placed something on the table, and Tom watched as her skirts fluttered until they were out of view. Jorg was alone, now.

Tom shut his eyes in a combination of fear and impatience. Was Jorg ever going to leave the kitchen? Tom had a harp to steal! And the longer he stayed within the giant’s apparently impeccable smell range, the more he risked being caught, and eaten. Quickly, he made his way back to the shadows of the oven, suppressing his impatient huff and running nervous hands over the front of his tunic.

From outside the oven, he heard a sharp command. “Play.”

Immediately, the soft melodies of a harp filled the air. The sound echoed in the oven, and left Tom hypnotized. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge and his skin tingled. He didn’t even realize his eyes had fluttered shut until Jorg’s voice cut through the music, ending it all.

“No, no. Play something merrier!” he commanded.

The moment the music started up, Tom found himself feeling calmer. The whimsical notes swirled around his head and swam into his ears…

“No!” A loud, thunderous boom left Tom pressing back further against the oven’s corner. “That won’t do today. Sing for me!” came the command.

Tom strained his ears curiously, only hearing the soft hisses of ‘s’ sounds at first. Soon, though, the voice grew louder and stronger, and a lovely tenor voice reached Tom’s ears. It left him feeling subdued and happy, as if he wasn’t currently hiding in the back of a giant’s oven. The words that were being sung were in a language Tom had never heard before, and yet, it was calling out to him. He could feel the tug at his heart, as if he was missing something he hadn’t even known he’d lost until that very moment, and he could feel warmth enveloping him.

It wasn’t until the sound of fading thunder met his ears that Tom jolted out of his dreamlike state. Instinctively, Tom pressed himself up against the oven wall, waiting in the silence.

No sound was made.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Tom crept forward quietly. For all he knew, the giant had realized where he was, and it was all a trap. Cautiously, he peeked out of the crack, looking as far as his eyes could manage. There was no giant in sight; the chair that’d once been occupied was completely empty.

Slowly, Tom dared to poke his head out of the oven, and released a breath when he realized that the kitchen was empty.

From somewhere in the hallway, Jorg spoke up, and Tom crouched back.

“I’m going to take my nap now,” he called out, his voice thundering through Tom’s head. Somewhere in the distance, Simone replied to him, and the thunder of his footsteps faded, followed by the crash of a door being closed.

After waiting a few cautious minutes, Tom peeked his head out of the oven again, heart pounding with excitement and nervousness. His lips tugged up in a grin; this was the type of thrill that he normally felt when he was doing something that he wasn’t necessarily supposed to be doing.

When he was sure that there would be no giants walking back into the kitchen, Tom scrambled down the side of the oven, and made a mad dash for the nearest chair leg.

It was a bit of a struggle trying to quietly climb the chair, and even more difficult to get on the table; more so to do it quietly. But finally, Tom made it and almost immediately, he was left to gape at the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on. “It’s…” he whispered in awe, a new sort of excitement forming in the pit of his stomach.

He was staring at his own legacy. On the table was the very thing that would alter his identity-when Tom returned to his world with the golden harp that had outsmarted Jack, he’d be hailed as another hero, alongside his brother. Gone would be the days of being Young Tom; gone would be the days of living in his brother’s shadows. On the horizon was a new day.

For, right before him was the legendary golden harp.

Tom stared at it in awe not only of what it symbolized, but of its actual beauty, as well. It was a finely crafted instrument if Tom had ever seen one. Its surface was smooth and rich, and looked luxuriant to the touch. Even the strings sparkled! But more than that was the decoration.

The spine reminded Tom of the ships that would occasionally glide into the pier; ships that were regally built, with a goddess of the sea decorating the helm. Like those ships, this harp had a beauty figureheading the angled soundbox, it’s back attached.

Tom mentally praised the hand that crafted the delicate lips and almost catlike eyes; the narrowly sloped nose. Tom took in the details-the delicacy of the décolletage, and the sharp lines of the clavicles, just as sharp as the angular face. The torso was lean and slender, and just below the naval the gold bloomed out into a bouquet of flowers that trailed the rest of the way down to the foot of the harp.

It was the same size as him, and the beauty that’d been carved into the instrument was absolutely breathtaking with skin and hair that was made of gold, and yet looked so soft and touchable; so lifelike. It was the distinct lack of breasts that left Tom reeling, however. Manning this harp wasn’t a goddess, but a god.

“Oh,” Tom murmured softly, too taken by the beauty of the sculpted man to care. He wanted to run a hand over his cheek; though it was pure gold, it looked as if it’d be feather soft to the touch.

“Well then, are you going to explain your presence, or do I need to call for my master?” The sly sounding voice came out of nowhere so abruptly that Tom nearly staggered backwards and right off of the table. His heel slipped over the edge, and he quickly threw his weight forward, tumbling ungracefully at the foot of the harp.

He lifted his head only to find the once stock still figure peering down at him, an easy smirk on his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“You-you talk!” Tom sputtered. The disbelief was unnecessary, he realized seconds after the statement left his mouth.

“I talk! Well, that’s to be expected, is it not? I do sing, after all. Should I be incapable of speech?” he reasoned, though there was a rather snappish undertone.

The sarcasm left Tom speechless, and a bit flustered. As he rose to his feet, he could feel the creature’s eyes on him, and it made him flush. He’d fallen on his face, and made the most ridiculous statement. In less than a minute, he’d managed to look like a complete fool, and a harp was mocking him. A beautiful harp, but still; a harp. Tom couldn’t feel more foolish if he’d tried. “Well, well. A harp with personality,” he muttered, unsure of whether this was a good thing or not.

“I have a name, too,” the figurehead said, tone full of mirth as he smirked.

There was a long break of silence, and finally, Tom asked, “Well, then? Are you going to tell me your name or not?”

The harp smiled at him impishly. “No. Perhaps if you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine. A favor for a favor, you’d call it.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Knowing my name is of benefit to you, is it?”

“Of course! When my master comes to eat you up, I’ll be able to dutifully report to him who you are-rather, who you were, by that point.”

The statement was enough to leave Tom overcome with fear; magical harps were known far and wide for their dedication and loyalty to their owners. If this one was threatening to oust his presence to his master, then Tom was in deep trouble.

The figure’s smirk was beginning to curve into something a bit more friendly. It made Tom narrow his eyes in suspicion, but he kept his guard up; harps had no qualms about being unfriendly to strangers if it would ultimately serve their master’s purposes.

“You’re lying,” Tom ventured, fighting to keep the nervousness out of his tone as he squinted at the figure guardedly.

In return, Tom received a narrow eyed smirk. “Am I? You’re an intruder here.”

Tom faltered. “I-”

The figurehead opened his mouth and took in a breath fit for a scream, and when Tom flinched, he smirked. “Silly boy. I wouldn’t dare alert my master to someone trying to thieve me, particularly not one so handsome.”

Tom didn’t mean to scoff-truly he didn’t-but he did; for alerting his master was exactly what he’d done to Jack, wasn’t it? The expression that the figurehead wore when he looked at Tom left him feeling nervous, but captivated. Even when he scowled, he was quite handsome…beautiful…both? It was rather intriguing.

The harp sharply turned his head, narrow eyes casting towards the door that separated the kitchen from the bedroom in which the giant was slumbering, and startling Tom into stillness. Tom glanced nervously in the same direction before looking back at the harp, whose eyebrow was raised in challenge. The figure looked back at him, lips pursing as if inviting him to dare speak.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll tell you my name. It’s Bill.” Bill held out a hand expectantly, and frowned when he got no response. “Why are you so quiet? Do you not trust me?” he asked, sounding indignant.

Unease tore through Tom. The longer he was out in the open space, the more nervous he became, and Bill’s heavy scrutinizing wasn’t easing his nerves-especially not after the bluff he’d just put on. Tom wasn’t sure what to do, but he realized that acquiescence would be prudent.

He took Bill’s hand in his own. It was smooth and cold. “I’m Tom,” he told him and tilted his head down to let his lips hover just above the golden hand, and the Bill’s expression softened.

“Tom…” Bill repeated thoughtfully; slowly, as if he tasted every sound that the name had to offer. Finally, he squinted at Tom, eyebrows furrowing, and lips turning up in a small smile. “You truly have come to steal me. Haven’t you?”

Tom blanched. “No! No, o-of course not,” he said quickly. He simpered at Bill, who merely slipped his hand out of Tom’s and crossed his golden arms over his chest with a knowing grin. “I wouldn’t-”

“Lying. Huh,” Bill said thoughtfully, cocking his head to one side. “Well, poorly or not, at least you’re trying to hide your intentions. Not like that thieving brother, Jack, of yours, just prancing on in and grabbing me as if I were some cheap lyre.”

“What?!”

“Exactly!” Bill exclaimed (and Tom, in his paranoia, cringed). “The nerve of him, ac-”

“No, no,” Tom said. His mind was spinning. “How did you… how did you know that…?”

“That Jack is your brother? I can smell it on you. Your family scent,” Bill explained quickly before waving a dismissive hand and fixing Tom with a stern expression. “Anyway, you’ve come to steal me, have you? So what are you waiting for? Let’s make this quick.”

The words were so incomprehensible that it was as if Bill had spoken in another language. “…What?”

“What?” Bill asked innocently.

Tom gaped at him. “You… you want to leave?” He was more than a little surprised. Not only were harps known as the most loyal of magical beings, but this particular harp had been so adverse to Jack’s touch that he’d nearly gotten him killed! “You don’t want to stay with your master?”

Bill sneered. “That big old oaf? Of course not! He’s so demanding of me. He always wants me to sing, even when my voice is tired. I even lost my voice once and the minute I was better, he demanded that I sing for hours. I nearly lost it again!”

Tom blinked in surprise at the anger on Bill’s face.

“On top of that, he broke my strings once!” Here, Bill’s expression went from anger to balefulness, and he winced as he recalled the incident. “He tried to play me, but of course, his fingers are much too large for my strings. He snapped every one of them in a single pluck. Oh! It was horrible. Bless the heavens for that brother of yours. Master was confined to bed for weeks after that fall from the beanstalk, and my poor, aching strings got a rest from his brutish hands.” He grabbed Tom’s hand, bringing it close for observation before turning a coquettish pout on Tom. “But your fingers… they look like they’d be the perfect size for me. I should hardly think it’d hurt at all.”

“Oh. I…wouldn’t know,” Tom said, more than a little distracted by the delicate golden eyelashes that fluttered against Bill’s cheeks. Tom was also taken aback by the way Bill’s eyebrows were arching as he pouted down at Tom’s fingers.

Then, his golden lips quirked upward in a way that left Tom feeling as though he’d just been had. But Bill was still holding onto his hand, turning it this way and that while his own fingers smoothed sweetly over Tom’s.

It was startling, being touched by Bill, mainly because he was made of gold. He was malleable, jointed as if there were bones beneath the surface, yet as hard and smooth as the pure gold that he truly was.

“Hm, yes” Bill uttered thoughtfully as he gave Tom’s fingers a final fawning over. His eyes lifted to meet Tom’s, and Tom felt heat warm his face and neck while his stomach rolled pleasantly. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on, then,” he said expectantly.

When he released Tom’s hands, there was a distinct lack of warmth, despite the fact that Bill was very cold to the touch. “I… what?” Tom finally managed, confused and startled out of focus.

“Tom. If you’d made it this far without dying, then surely you’re not dense,” Bill stated, leaving him feeling very much so.

Tom was beginning to reconsider whether he really wanted to take the golden harp from the giant, after all.

“Maybe if you’d stop beating around the bush…” Tom muttered. Bill huffed out an impatient breath that had Tom raising his hands in begrudging defeat. “Alright, fine, what? What do you want, Bill?”

“I want you to pluck me,” Bill said impatiently. There was something dark in Bill’s tone, something wanting that made Tom flush.

Bill jerked his head towards the frame of his harp, and Tom obediently moved over to the side, coming face to face with golden strings strung taut from the shining silver pins that were attached to the harmonic curve.

Hesitantly, Tom reached out a hand. His fingers were tingling, even as they hovered inches away from the glistening strings. They were thin, coated in pure gold-they certainly didn’t look like they were meant to be plucked; rather, this harp looked like one to be put on display. For a brief moment, Tom was afraid that if he used enough force to pluck one of the spindly golden lines, he’d end up snapping something solid in half, instead.

To the side of him, Bill hissed softly. “Go on,” he urged. His voice was heavy with anticipation, and it urged Tom forward. Carefully, he ran a finger down the fine line of the thinnest string. Despite his gentle touch, the string bowed pliantly beneath the weight of his finger, and rather than snapping, produced a soft, barely there whine.

Tom plucked the string softly, and it released a soft, single note into the air. Bill let out a happy sigh. “Mm! Yes, yes… that didn’t hurt at all. That felt good. Perfect. Do it again.”

Tom swallowed and looked at Bill. His golden eyes had fallen shut, and his plus lips were parted as he let out a soft breath. The stirrings that arose in Tom were enough to leave him flushing even more. The fine hairs on his body were rising as his skin prickled with warmth. In the back of his mind, he tried to reason with himself, because he was desiring a figurehead. A male figurehead, at that.

Worse yet, he was plucking the strings of a harp, while a giant slumbered one room over.

He was in dangerous territory, in more ways than one.

And yet, Tom did it again, plucking a different string. The sound produced was lower in pitch and stronger in sound, despite being just as quiet as the first note had been.

“Yes,” Bill whispered. “Harder.”

Here, Tom hesitated. “Won’t we wake the gian-”

“If we would wake him, then I wouldn’t be asking you to do it, would I?” Bill cut in, craning his neck to look at Tom. “Now, come on!”

Tom quickly ran his finger over all of the strings in a cascading scale, torn between feeling paranoid that they were being far too loud, and feeling ashamed of loving the sinful noise that left Bill’s lips to mingle with the musical notes.

“Oh yes, that’s so good,” Bill said, and his last word was drawn out, turning into a magnificent note as he harmonized with his resonating strings. It was enough to make Bill’s breath hitch; his voice was beautiful. He’d heard Bill singing for the giant earlier, but from within the confines of the oven, the sound had been greatly distorted. Bill’s voice was strong and rich and… perfect.

“Oh, Tom,” Bill breathed. “Your fingers… they’re so perfect. Do it again, please,” he begged, and this time, his voice was full of urgency. Tom swallowed hard and did it again, jerking when Bill gripped his forearm tightly and hummed in satisfaction.

Tom swallowed before bracing himself with a hand against the spine of the harp, a hair’s breadth away from touching Bill’s naked side. He looked up just in time to see Bill bite on his lip, the gold bending malleably beneath his molded teeth.

Tom stared at Bill for a moment and took in the site of him like this, eyes shut, lip buttoned beneath a row of teeth. Something about the simple expression made him look utterly undone in a way that was strangely forward. He let his eyes roam over the harp’s figurehead, faintly aware of the desires for a more intimate touch rising forth from his subconscious; Tom wanted to kiss him.

“Tom,” Bill began and trailed off, his voice soft enough to leave Tom breathless.

“Yes?” Tom breathed, hypnotized. He didn’t realize how close he’d drawn until Bill’s eyes were fluttering open and Tom was left staring into two solid gold eyes. There were no pupils or irises and yet, Tom was distinctly aware of when eye contact had been made.

A cool finger touched the back of Tom’s neck and traced over his nape, making him shiver. His skin prickled beneath the heated gaze Bill was managing to give him.

“Tom,” Bill said again, that finger still tracing over Tom’s nape, “are you going to take me home?”

Before a reply could be given, Bill’s hand splayed over the back of Tom’s neck and pulled him in until their lips were touching.

Tom didn’t resist.

Warm, soft lips pressed against cold hard ones. It was strange; not at all like kissing a maiden. Tom didn’t have much involvement when it came to kisses, but the few he’d had were greatly different from this. Their lips were soft and pliant. Moreover, they were human. And yet, kissing Bill felt wonderful. It was heady, shaking Tom to the core despite the fact that the kiss couldn’t have been more simple, lips pressed against lips in a firm but gentle hold.

The hand that was gripping Tom’s arm tightened as they broke apart. Tom’s head was spinning, body thrumming with warmth and satisfaction. When Bill ran a golden tongue over his lips, Tom felt tempted to lean in and kiss him again.

“Well?” Bill asked, lips turning up in a smile.

The gaping hole in Tom’s memory left him floundering. In his defense, Tom was having a hard time remembering his own name after such a magical kiss. “Well, what?” Tom asked dumbly, and Bill laughed merrily.

“Perhaps you’re dense after all,” Bill murmured, and Tom would’ve been offended if it hadn’t been for the fond smile on the harp’s lips. “Well, are you going to take me home?”

“Right,” Tom remembered. “Take you away from your master.”

“Take me with my master,” Bill said pointedly, leveling him with a gaze full of set intentions.

Tom blinked at him in surprise. Golden harps were magical beings known for their music, their beauty, and their loyalty. Once a harp had an owner, a master, it remained loyal for the rest of eternity. Even the ones who found themselves with constantly snapped strings, dirty frames, or cast aside were devoted to their negligent masters. For a golden harp to shift its allegiance was almost unheard of.

Bill watched him levelly, and wilted when Tom shook his head.

“No. I won’t be your master,” Tom said, and Bill looked so crushed that Tom quickly surged onward. “But I will take you home.”

Bill looked up at him soundlessly, narrowing his eyes as he gazed at Tom, as if trying to see into his mind. “You mean that,” Bill said, and it wasn’t a question. He bloomed back into the bright demeanor he’d been wearing earlier before Tom’s very eyes.

“I mean that,” Tom confirmed. His mind was spinning. For a harp to claim a master was for it to put the utmost trust in his or her hands. It was a great deal of responsibility, even if he wasn’t going to be Bill’s master; Bill had still chosen him, and Tom would have a lot of live up to.

It certainly wasn’t a decision to be made rashly; those who had harps of their own possessed them due to several days-sometimes even fortnights-of contemplation. Yet, he was making the decision after having only been around the beautiful instrument for mere minutes. Something within him roiled nervously at the thought, wondering what’d happen if he later decided that he no longer wanted Bill. The harp would still remain loyal to Tom; no matter how much being cast aside would hurt.

Tom cringed at the thought. He’d never do that.

“Tom?” Bill was watching Tom carefully. If he detected any of Tom’s hesitation, he didn’t show it. He was giving Tom a smile both gentle and cocky, arms crossed over his chest once more. “What are you doing? Are you thinking lewdly of me?” he teased, his smirk widening when Tom flushed.

“I was merely thinking,” Tom protested.

“About me,” Bill concluded, and reached out to pat his shoulder consolingly. “It’s ok, Tom. I’m sure once we get back to your realm, we can find a magician or fairy who’d be willing to spare us a bit of magic to make me human, for a price.”

“Perhaps,” Tom agreed. He pretended not to notice the way Bill’s eyes crinkled mischievously, but couldn’t keep from smiling widely at the usage of ‘us.’ “If that’s what you wish for…?” he trailed off questioningly, smiling at Bill’s eager nod. “Then we’ll find a way.”

Bill’s smile made the entire harp seem to glow, from the framework to the thinnest of strings, and the sight made Tom warm with affection.

“Bill, tell me. Harps hardly ever switch masters. Why…?”

“Why did I choose you?” Bill asked, and Tom nodded. “Because it feels right. I saw you, and I just knew. You’re the one destined to be my master. I chose Jorg for self preservation; I’d never truly him, not in my heart. But you…” Bill trailed off, his expression becoming shy. “Don’t you feel it?”

Tom knew exactly what Bill was talking about. The moment he’d laid eyes on Bill, the feeling had been so natural that he’d barely noticed it; a sort of feeling of completion. It had been accompanied by an implicit knowledge so natural that it was as if he’d always known: they were supposed to be together. “I felt it,” he said.

Bill’s smile was magnificent. He trailed a hand over Tom’s cheek before petting over his dreadlocks. “You’re taking me home,” he declared. “And then, we’ll make me human. And then, we can work from there.” It was a simple enough statement, but the sultry smile teasing at Bill’s golden lips left Tom blushing.

Oh, yes. He was definitely taking Bill home.

Great. Way to go, Tom, Tom thought to himself happily as he struggled to get Bill off of the table and onto the chair, and then the floor.

He’d just had to climb the beanstalk. He’d had to decide that he wanted some attention for himself. He couldn’t have just been happy living in his older brother’s shadow. Oh, no. Tom had to want to be an individual.

And as Tom hefted Bill up into his arms and nearly buckled under the weight, he couldn’t help but warm at the beaming smile Bill gave him.

It was more than worth it.

The End