Liir sat down on the bed, letting his dressing gown fall open.
“Why did you come back?” He asked again. Trism looked at the floor.
“I missed you.” He admitted.
“Meaning that you have nothing else left,” Liir challenged.
“Meaning that I missed you.”
“Then come to me.”
Trism came.
Their kisses were awkward, fumbling, but they quickly fell into an eager rhythm, pressing and thrusting against each other. For the sake of the sleeping infant, for Emerald, they were quiet as they had been that first time at the Inn. Moans and cries stifled, swallowed, held back even as their bodies found release.
After Trism held Liir tight as if he was afraid to let him go. It meant something to Liir, it really did. He had hardly imagined there was anything to him to be missed, to be held. Perhaps there was after all. Perhaps with Trism’s help he could be more to Emerald than Elphaba had been to him, a mother, a father, someone real who could be touched and loved. A child needed more than an ideal, more than a symbol however powerful.