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To his surprise, Arthur chuckles. He leans forward with one forearm on the table, searching Shae’s face for something. There’s a slight flicker of warmth, energy passing through him. Nothing harmful, or Shae’s rings would have deflected it. Probably some sort of detection spell—with the unintended side effect of making Shae’s heart race. He’s never felt Varan magic before. Never tasted so much sunlight from one person.
“It’s all right if we separate briefly. As long as I know where you are, I’ll be fine.” That’s a lie. Arthur’s magic ripples cold. The only lie Shae’s told, and it doesn’t make sense. It’s the most normal thing the necromancer’s said all morning—why would it be a lie?
Ronan was nothing like Shae. Tall, strong, darkly tanned, laughed at everything, but especially at Arthur. He liked to cuddle and trace patterns on Arthur’s skin. He was sweet. He talked about his dreams of a quiet life on a farm, and he asked about Arthur’s work. Far too many questions about Arthur’s work, in retrospect. His sweetness was poison. His dreams were a drug.
Shae’s nothing like Ronan. He isn’t sweet. But more and more, Arthur wants to know what bitterness tastes like.
When he fell asleep, he was next to Arthur. Now, he is very much on top of Arthur. Cheek and hand pressed against his broad chest, one of his legs actually hooked over one of Arthur’s. His heartbeat picks up, and he can’t help flinching away. Trying to, at least. At the slight movement, Arthur’s arm tightens around his waist, pinning him in place. Shae can’t crane his head up enough to see Arthur’s face, but he has to still be asleep.
He’s not sure why he bought the ring, other than that it would look pretty on Shae’s hand, perhaps winning him a smile for the effort.
He reaches out and touches Shae’s chin, and he barely has to press his fingers to turn Shae towards him, like a flower turning towards the sun.
Arthur has his own scars. Training injuries, battle wounds. Childhood mishaps. The marks on Shae’s skin still bother him in a way he can’t quite explain. Maybe it’s that Shae hired him for protection, but he isn’t allowed to protect Shae from himself.
He feels a warm, fleeting pressure on the top of his head, so quick he might have imagined it. If it wasn’t impossible, he would think it was a kiss. He’s too exhausted and comfortable to think much of it.
“Are you hurt?” Shae’s eyes are wide and red-rimmed. “Fuck, Arthur, say something.” Arthur doesn’t have words for the emotion rising inside him. He slides his hand into Shae’s hair, holds him in place, and kisses his blue lips.
“I have no idea what I’m doing here.” Arthur’s almost ashamed of how hard that makes him. He likes the thought of being Shae’s first, with a powerful possessiveness that takes him by surprise. He’s never felt this way about anyone else before. “Have you kissed anyone before?” he asks, running his thumb over Shae’s lip. Shae’s eyes dart away. “What kind of idiot would kiss a necromancer?” “In my defense,” Arthur says, “you’re a very attractive necromancer.”
But Arthur wants him already, as twisted as he is. Arthur grins up at him so wickedly that Shae can forget for a moment that he’s the monster here.
This time, the entire world is the kiss that Arthur drags him into. The start of something. After ten years of endings, Shae likes the sound of that.
“It’s warm,” Shae says quietly. “But it’s more than that. If you could taste sunlight, it would taste like you. I haven’t felt the heat of summer in so long, I’ve forgotten what it felt like. I’ve spent so long just trying to be less cold. Actually being warm was a pathetic fantasy.” “Shae,” Arthur starts, heart pounding, but thin fingers cover his lips. “When I’m near you,” Shae whispers, “I feel alive.”
The cut is shallow. It’ll heal soon, and he can wash his shirt later. But a disproportionate amount of pain radiates from the injury, and he can’t stop thinking about how tender Arthur’s hands felt as he patched him up. The sense-memory of sweetness hurts more than the cut itself.
Something fractures inside Shae. He doesn’t know if Arthur’s right. He’s spent so long hating himself for this. But he wants to believe, and that’s closer to forgiveness than he’s ever gotten before. Maybe it’s fitting that he had to come back and hear that here, in front of the house his parents built. He needed to taste the ashes again. He needed to tell the story out loud to release it from his heart.
He leans in for a brief breath of a kiss, then whispers, “I can live with this power, but I don’t want to live without you.”
He wants to be this close forever. So close he can’t tell which of them is moving more, which of their heartbeats is louder in his ears. Whether there’s any difference in the breath shared between them.
