Chapter 3
The plane ride is almost unbearable in its awkwardness.
Grigori pulls the concussion card just to get away from the prying eyes of people he doesn't remember and can't bring himself to care about.
Blackwood reads his mood correctly and sits across the aisle from him, which Grigori resents– he doesn't need to be babysat.
When the plane takes off he notices a few pale faces but chalks it up to a team of nervous flyers, and, not being one of them, slips on his eye mask to avoid having to look at anyone anymore.
Also because his head still aches like a bitch.
"Take it easy, Kov," their coach, Koester, tells him when they get off on the tarmac.
"We need you in one piece."
"And go easy on Blackwood," the one with curly hair says lowly.
Pierce, maybe.
Grigori gives him a half-assed salute instead of saying
Mind your own fucking business
like he wants to and follows Blackwood silently to their car– an SUV, of all things.
"It's good in the snow," Blackwood says, when he sees Grigori's disgusted expression.
"You would say that," Grigori scoffs.
Blackwood side eyes him.
"You picked it, not me." It's such an unbelievable statement that if Blackwood were capable of pranks, Grigori would think he was pulling one.
He scowls and pulls his toque over his eyes.
Thirty-four-year-old Grigori has yet to impress him.
It's not long before they pull into the driveway of an enormous, gated house in the suburbs.
It's admittedly beautiful, with a four-car garage, semicircular driveway, and a spacious front yard.
The October chill is starting to affect the trees, and red and orange foliage covers the grass.
It looks like a fairytale– Grigori can't believe he would ever live here.
It's nothing like his sleek and sexy penthouse.
Blackwood, meanwhile, has removed Grigori's bag from the trunk and is carrying it toward the house, as if Grigori is a visiting aunt.
"I can carry my own bag," Grigori says irritably, wincing at the sunlight as he exits the passenger seat.
He's ignored.
"How's your head?"
I can carry the bag."
"I'm sure you can," Blackwood says, unlocking the front door.
"I just need to–
Zoya!
Grigori's mood lifts immediately as a blur of brown and white and gray leaps at him.
A dog!
A beautiful, perfect, sweet baby of a dog, who is licking Grigori's face and wagging its tail at the speed of light.
"I guess my parents dropped her off early," Blackwood sighs.
"I'll let you two get reacquainted."
"Are you mine?" Grigori gushes in Morvanian.
"Are you my puppy, pretty girl?" Zoya– it's a cute name.
Zoya barks once, as if to say,
yes!
Maybe the future isn't all bad, if he has the cutest dog in the entire world.
When he glances up Blackwood is gazing at him, smiling softly, but he turns away immediately when he notices Grigori's eyes on him.
"Come on," he says, clearing his throat.
"I'll...
give you the tour, I guess."
He takes him through the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom (and avoids the office, Grigori notices).
It's homey, with framed pictures everywhere.
Grigori doesn't get the chance to study them too much, because Blackwood's nervous babbling distracts him.
It's annoying.
It's only a little past noon, and he slept on the plane, but he's exhausted down to his bones.
"I think I will take a nap," he says.
They haven't reached anything upstairs, yet, because Blackwood won't stop talking about the tile of the kitchen or some shit, like he's a realtor trying to convince Grigori to buy.
"Okay," Blackwood says, after a beat.
"The master is the one on the left."
The master.
Where he presumably sleeps with Blackwood.
Where he fucks him, too.
No, he can't sleep there.
"You take the master.
This is your room; I'm a guest."
Hurt flashes on Blackwood's face.
"You're not a..." he trails off, and sighs.
"Take the master.
Usually Grigori would be game to continue arguing, but his head is throbbing, and he's never heard Blackwood sound so defeated.
"Okay," he agrees quietly, a little taken aback by the emotion on that freckled face.
"Can I bring the dog?"
Blackwood hesitates.
Fine.
Just this once.
She can't think it's a normal thing." Whatever.
Grigori gets to snuggle his awesome dog; he'll take his wins where he can.
The master itself is a classy, open room with a king sized bed.
Grigori takes the opportunity to snoop, noting the pictures of he and Blackwood, like, everywhere.
His concussion means he can't be on his phone for the first few days, but he assumes, looking at all of the physical proof of their relationship, that his camera roll is something similar.
He stares at the picture closest to the bed:
Blackwood in a suit and beaming at Grigori, who looks happier than he thought possible.
As crazy as it is, he can only assume it's from their wedding day.
He studies the man in the photo.
It's like looking at a stranger.
His jaw is more square, and his hair is longer.
His face has matured and aged (Christ, he has crow's feet)
The problem is he doesn't remember it happening.
This Grigori moved to Oakmere for Dane Blackwood.
This Grigori married him in the backyard, surrounded by loved ones.
This Grigori got to fuck him, to hold him, to stay with him.
Blackwood looks so happy, freckles bunched up and his eyes squinty.
Somehow, Grigori made him happy.
Damn it,
he thinks, and his head starts pounding.
Blackwood's the wholesome Tavarian sweetheart, and he's the obnoxious rock star.
They're polar opposites.
This doesn't make sense.
Sleep is impossible, as tired as he is.
The sheets smell like Blackwood– clean.
Like citrus, like mint, like skin.
The same way he smelled in Sunspire, when they presented the award together; when Grigori had taken those selfies, convinced it would be the only picture he'd ever have of Blackwood.
Now he's lying in a bed surrounded by pictures of them both.
He wonders what side of the bed Blackwood prefers, or if he snores.
He probably likes to be the little spoon.