I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 52: Spinning

They walked back to their room slowly, taking the long way through the quiet hallways. Abel carried his favorite wooden horse tucked under his arm. His other hand was wrapped around Orion’s, but it wasn’t the tense grip from earlier that morning. It was loose and warm, his fingers occasionally giving a little squeeze.

He didn’t say much. He just hummed a tuneless, happy sound under his breath.

When they reached their chamber door, Abel pushed it open and let go of Orion’s hand to usher him inside. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, everything changed.

The quiet, humming contentment vanished, replaced by a sudden, bubbling energy.

Before Orion could even turn around, big hands closed on his waist from behind. He yelped in surprise as he was lifted clean off his feet.

”Abel?!”

Abel didn’t answer with words. He answered with motion.

He spun.

Holding Orion around the middle, Abel turned in a fast, dizzying circle right there in the middle of their room. The world blurred—the bed, the fireplace, the windows whirling past in a streak of color. Orion’s feet swung out, completely off the ground. He gasped, instinctively grabbing at Abel’s forearms where they locked around him.

”Abel! Put me down!” But there was laughter caught in his throat, ruining the scolding tone.

Abel just laughed, a deep, booming sound of pure joy that vibrated through Orion’s back. He spun faster, three more revolutions, before slowing to a stumbling halt. He was breathless, grinning wildly, but he didn’t let go. He just held Orion aloft, his cheek pressed against Orion’s shoulder blade.

”I am happy,” Abel said, the words puffing warm against Orion’s tunic. ”I am so, so happy.”

”I can tell!” Orion said, still dangling. ”Now can I please touch the floor?”

Reluctantly, Abel lowered him until Orion’s boots brushed the rug. But he didn’t release his hold. He just loosened it enough for Orion to turn in the circle of his arms.

Orion turned. He looked up into a face glowing with uncomplicated delight. Abel’s golden-brown eyes were bright, his smile wide enough to show teeth. It was the most purely joyful expression Orion had ever seen on him.

”You’re crushing me,” Orion pointed out, though he made no move to pull away.

Abel immediately slackened his arms, but kept them looped around Orion’s back. ”Sorry. Too tight?”

”A little.” Orion reached up and smoothed a wild strand of blond hair back from Abel’s forehead. ”What’s all this about?”

”Today,” Abel said, as if that explained everything. ”It was a good day. A full good day. No bad parts at the end.”

He started swaying them gently from side to side, a slow, rocking dance without music.

”Aster is my friend again. We played. We won. He called me ’Captain.’” Abel’s voice was full of wonder. ”And the others... they played too. They weren’t scared. They brought cookies. And toys. For me.”

He rested his forehead against Orion’s. ”And you were there. On the bench. Watching. You looked... soft. Not worried.”

”I wasn’t worried,” Orion admitted. He’d been fascinated, moved, but not worried. ”You were amazing.”

Abel’s swaying dance became a little shuffle, turning them in a slow circle. ”My head was quiet the whole time. Even when we were planning the battle. It was a good loud. A thinking loud. Not a scary loud.”

”That’s wonderful, Abel.”

”And now we’re here.” Abel stopped shuffling and just held him, burying his face in the crook of Orion’s neck. He inhaled deeply. ”And you smell like sunshine and cookies and me.”

Orion chuckled, wrapping his arms around Abel’s broad back. He could feel the strong, steady heartbeat thumping against his own chest. ”I smell like you because you’ve been squeezing me for five minutes.”

”Mine,” Abel murmured, the word not possessive in a harsh way, but satisfied. Content. Like stating a simple, wonderful fact. ”My husband. My Orion. My happy.”

The last two days of careful tension, of Abel’s quiet preparation, had built up this energy. Now it was spilling out of him in waves of physical affection. He couldn’t contain it in words, so he expressed it in touch.

He pulled back just enough to look at Orion again. His gaze was suddenly serious, though the happiness still shone underneath. ”You made this happen.”

”I didn’t do anything,” Orion protested softly.

”Yes, you did.” Abel was certain. ”You stayed. When I growled. When I was scary. You stayed. And you told me about the jealousy hurt. And you helped me say sorry. You dressed me. You came with me. You sat on the bench.” He punctuated each statement with a gentle squeeze. ”You are my... my bridge. To the good things.”

Orion’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say to that. So he just leaned up and kissed him.

It was a sweet, slow kiss. A thank you. An acceptance.

Abel made a soft, pleased sound against his mouth and kissed him back, deepening it for a moment before breaking away to nuzzle his nose along Orion’s cheek. ”I want to keep it,” he whispered. ”This feeling. In a box. So I can take it out on days when the loud comes back.”

”You don’t need a box,” Orion said, stroking his hair. ”It’s inside you now. You made a new memory today. A strong, happy one. That’s your box.”

Abel considered this. He nodded slowly. Then a mischievous glint entered his eye. ”I still want to spin.”

”Abel, no—”

It was too late. Abel’s hands tightened again, and he hoisted Orion up, this time cradling him more fully, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. He spun again, but slower this time, a deliberate, joyous waltz around the perimeter of the room.

Orion gave up protesting. He looped his arms around Abel’s neck and let himself be carried, laughing helplessly as they orbited the bed, the table, the hearth. He felt light. Weightless. Happy in a way that was purely infectious, borrowed from the radiant man holding him.

After a few turns, Abel staggered toward the bed. He didn’t drop Orion. He collapsed backwards onto the mattress with an ”oomph,” taking Orion down with him so they landed in a heap, Orion mostly on top of him.

They lay there, tangled together, breathing hard from laughter and spinning. The afternoon sun streamed across the quilt.

Abel’s arms were still around him, solid and secure. He was looking up at the canopy, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath Orion. A profound peace settled over his features.

”Today,” he said again, his voice now soft with exhaustion and fulfillment. ”Today was perfect.”

Orion propped himself up on one elbow to look down at him. He traced the line of Abel’s jaw, the curve of his smiling mouth. ”It really was.”

Abel’s eyes drifted closed. The frantic energy had burned itself out, leaving behind a deep, warm glow. His fingers absently rubbed circles on Orion’s back. ”Will you tell me a story?” he mumbled, already half-asleep.

”What kind of story?”

”A happy one. About a captain and his friend. And a picnic. And no growling.”

Orion smiled. He lay back down, settling his head on Abel’s shoulder. He began to speak, his voice low and soothing.

”Once upon a time, there was a brave captain. He had a mind like a map of stars—sometimes the map got folded in the wrong order, but the stars were always there, shining...”

As he spun the simple tale of their day, changing the names but keeping the essence, he felt Abel’s breathing grow deeper and more even. The hand on his back stilled.

By the time Orion finished the story—the captain and his friend sharing ginger biscuits in a sunny courtyard, their wooden armies at peace—Abel was asleep. A small, serene smile remained on his lips.

Orion watched him sleep. He felt the incredible trust in the heavy arm still draped over him, in the complete vulnerability of Abel’s rest.

*You are my bridge to the good things.*

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was the whole, messy, complicated point of them. Not to fix each other, but to be each other’s passage back to the light when the path grew dark.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, Orion shifted just enough to pull the corner of the quilt over them both. He nestled back into the warmth of Abel’s side, listening to the strong, steady heart beating under his ear.

Orion closed his eyes, listening to Abel’s quiet breathing. Even asleep, Abel’s fingers occasionally twitched against his back, as though some part of him still wanted to hold on. Orion smiled and gently laced their fingers together, resting their joined hands against Abel’s chest. Beneath his palm, that steady heartbeat continued, warm and reassuring. Tomorrow might bring difficult conversations, unexpected fears, or another day when Abel’s thoughts became too loud. Orion knew he couldn’t promise to make every hurt disappear. But he could promise to meet those difficult days beside him, one step at a time, hand in hand.