He sat down naked on the side of the bed. Colin opened eyes, welcoming and weary, and reached out to tap at his arm. David laughed through anguish and got into the right position, half-propped up against pillows, his other half cradled securely in his arms, more or less atop his chest.
He rubbed Colin’s back. Stroked all that tired soft hair. His magic did live in his hands: what he drew could heal, could blossom into life. Worn out, hurting, he pushed a wavering star-speck of life that way. What he had to offer. Himself.
“My witch,” Colin murmured, half-awake, languid against him. “Save it.”
“My turn. Want me to make your tea?”
“Not yet. I like you right here. Mine’ll refill. With time.”
“Yeah, but right now.” He petted Colin’s hip, traced the reality of his spine, the presence of hi
