Alex brushed aside Corbin’s long hair and kissed the back of his neck. He’d come home to find Corbin asleep at the kitchen table with his head on his crossed arms, and at the press of Alex’s lips he came awake slowly.
When he straightened up, Alex kissed his mouth, tasting sleep and ginger and the heat of Corbin’s tongue. It was what Alex always did when he got home: kissed Corbin until Corbin’s body remembered that this was real. Because sometimes, when they were apart, it folded back in on itself out of habit.
But after a year, the habit was slowly shifting. Now, some mornings Corbin awoke to find his arms had already sought out Alex in sleep, clutching him close. Some evenings after dinner, when they left the house for their nightly walk through the woods, Corbin’s hand would reach out automatically, searching for Alex’s.
These were the moments Alex held inside himself with quiet satisfaction. The remaking of Corbin Wale was a constant overturning, like the ocean tides.
The remaking of Alex Barrow had been far less tempestuous. It had been a deepening, an underscoring. He had sunk into his love for Corbin with the inevitability of gravity. At unexpected moments, he would see Corbin and be caught breathless at the insistence of his need. When Corbin reached for him, he felt that need like magnets finding their way close enough to snap together.
It was what he’d never had. And now that he did, he could recognize the foolishness of thinking he hadn’t wanted it.
They’d made a life that fit them. They’d made their own rules and followed their own whims. And neither of them had ever been happier. For Alex it was a magnification, for Corbin a revelation. But both of them tended it like a fire, feeding it with care, so it warmed and sustained, but didn’t consume.
Now, as Corbin came back to him in the kiss, Alex wrapped his arms around him and held him close.
“I made up two new muffin recipes. And I finished the chapter,” Corbin said into his neck. Corbin still wasn’t much for hellos or pleasantries.
“Yeah? Tell me.”
Tell me. They were the magic words. The ones that made Corbin believe his thoughts were welcome, believe his desires and fantasies were cherished, believe his suggestions were valued. Tell me had the power to turn him inside out. And Alex kept every secret, every word, safe.
Corbin stretched, shoulders popping from hunching over a counter and a table all day. He’d been up with Alex before the sun. Corbin had come to cherish these predawn hours, when people were still asleep, but nature was stirring. They felt precious and delicate. And Alex’s kiss before he left for the bakery felt equally precious, lips lingering as if he could hardly tear himself away.
He still baked in the kitchen of And Son twice a week, but now he preferred to work on recipes from home. He’d turned out to be good at it once he’d allowed his mind to wander in that direction. And he loved the feel of the ingredients in his hands. Loved to watch Alex eat what he’d prepared. Some of his wilder experiments produced inedible results, and Alex tasted them with the same enthusiasm, then teased him with affection and not the slightest hint of rebuke.
“One for summer. I felt so summery this morning,” he murmured absently. Alex kissed his jaw. “Sweet cornbread muffin made with browned butter, a few cherries, and a tiny splash of almond extract.” He’d daydreamed the sweet summer corn in the garden and the way Alex’s lips looked like cherries when swollen with his kisses.
“Mmm, that’s a really good idea.”
Alex’s praise, Alex’s esteem, undid Corbin like nothing ever had. Well, nothing except Alex’s command.
“And, um,” Corbin went on, distracted by Alex’s mouth at his throat, stubble electrifying his skin. “Gingerbread bran muffin. With molasses and crystallized ginger.” He’d daydreamed Alex’s constant steady nurturance, studded with moments of spice and snaps of annihilating sweetness.
Alex pulled him closer and hummed. “I could taste it on you. The ginger.” He tipped Corbin’s chin up and kissed him again, tongues tangling, until Corbin went boneless in his arms.
“You can taste them for real,” Corbin whispered, nodding at the counter.
“Muffins for dinner?” Alex said with a last kiss to the corner of Corbin’s mouth.
Corbin’s sudden smile was shockingly sweet. Sometimes things delighted him that Alex could never predict. And to see Corbin’s joy filled Alex with a satisfaction too deep to measure.
“Can we have pancakes too.”
“Pancakes too.” Alex brushed a kiss over Corbin’s mouth and pressed him close, before turning to the refrigerator.
As Alex made the pancakes—Corbin got too distracted and always burned them in the pan—Corbin perched on the counter and told him about the chapter he’d finished.
Corbin was drawing a comic. One morning, a few days after Alex had moved in, Corbin had flipped through his notebooks and felt a pang of loss. He hadn’t drawn his friends in weeks. He settled in to reconnect with them, and was startled to realize that it wasn’t them he missed. It was drawing itself.
He still thought about them often, but he made up stories about them less and less.
Corbin had turned blank pages in his notebook—three, for luck and distance—and began to draw. Began to draw something else.
For the first few days, he hadn’t been sure of what it was. There were peaked roofs and the tips of pine trees swaying in a green breeze. There were two moons over a rambling garden, and two matching women tending giant pumpkins and cabbages and herbs that scented the air.
And there was a little boy between them, looking out into the woods at the animals he could hear there.
Corbin drew and drew and little by little, the pieces came together.
This boy wasn’t lonely because he was loved by all the animals. This boy wasn’t afraid because he could fly up toward the moons and look down at the whole of his world and see that it was complete, it was safe. This boy would grow up some day and he would be happy, but slowly, slowly.
Now it had been months and the story had grown larger as his imagination unspooled. They had cleared out the attic, with its mellow wash of light, for him to draw in, and the wooden boards were strewn with drawings, the walls covered in them.
Corbin wasn’t sure what he would do with it when he was done. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be done. But it made him happy, and that was something he’d come to believe was valuable.
After dinner, ginger and cherries and maple syrup still lingering on their tongues, they left the house hand in hand, boots and sweaters and coats pulled on against the snow. When they reached the tree line, a familiar bark rang through the air, and Wolf came to their side. Other dogs barked happily in answer. They’d emerge in time.
The quiet of the air was hypnotizing, and they made their way slowly through the snow.
“Alex.”
Alex still felt a thrill every time Corbin said his name. “Yeah, baby.”
“It’s almost been a year.”
Corbin had felt the season approach like a motor running down in his stomach.
“It has. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t know what will happen. I . . . If I did it wrong, if the curse didn’t break . . .” He shook his head. They both knew what Corbin thought it meant. “I’m scared I’ll lose you.”
Alex stopped him with a tug to his hand. “You’re not going to lose me.”
“I might.”
“Nope. Not going to happen.”
“Alex.” Corbin knew that Alex didn’t believe in the curse, not exactly. But he believed in the power of people to make things happen, or to succumb to them. He might not worry about the curse itself, but he worried about Corbin’s thrall to it.
Alex pulled Corbin in and hugged him, their embrace a bulky thing of coats and hats and scarves. “When will you know? It’s within a year, right, so when do we measure from? Is it from when I fell in love, or from when you did? Or the first day we both were? God, this is worse than figuring out an anniversary.”
Corbin pushed him away, smiling. “You’re ridiculous. You know it doesn’t work that way.”
Alex grinned. He had no idea how it worked, but had some ideas about how Corbin’s mind worked. He was smart and creative, and if given an opportunity to make connections, he would.
“Tell me how it works, love.”
Corbin shrugged.
“How will you know when we’re safe?”
Corbin shrugged again. “I’ll just know.”
Two days later, Corbin woke gasping in the dark.
His head was spinning and there were spangles in his chest. His fingertips were numb.
“Alex,” he croaked.
“Mmm, you okay, baby?” Alex murmured, still half asleep.
“Alex, it’s today.”
Alex shifted next to him, coming awake at the panic in his voice. “Tell me.”
“Alex.” Corbin pushed off the covers and made for the window. He searched the skies and the treetops and the snow below for signs. He closed his eyes and felt his own heartbeat and the rush of blood through his body. He felt Alex’s heartbeat across the room, as strong and vital as ever.
He stuck his head out the window, taking in great gasps of air, filtering out the earthy smells of winter in search of the ones that could tell him something.
“Alex.”
Alex’s arms came around him, and Alex’s chin came down on top of his head. They were both naked, and Corbin could feel their goose bumps everywhere.
“So we just have to get through today, right? And if we do, you’ll believe that we’re okay?”
Corbin nodded and let himself be led back to bed. His heart was pounding so hard he felt faint. The span of one day stood between him and everything he’d ever wanted, or something that would destroy him.
“Is it midnight, tonight, or do we have to get through until tomorrow morning? Like, morning to evening, or twenty-four hours, or—”
Corbin socked him in the shoulder.
“Should we stay in bed all day? Will we be safer?”
“Aunt Jade’s wife died in her sleep.”
“Okay, should we just go about our business as usual?”
“It doesn’t matter. If it’s going to happen, it will happen.”
Corbin shuddered and Alex drew him close, lying down with Corbin on his chest.
“I know, baby. I meant what would make you feel better.”
But Corbin didn’t know.
Alex went to work as usual, promising Corbin he’d text every hour and be home by four. When he kissed Corbin goodbye at the door, Corbin was shaking so badly his teeth chattered. When their lips parted, Corbin whimpered like a distressed animal and Alex could hardly bear to leave him. But Corbin had told him to go, finally, saying it would be harder to watch him all day, waiting.
Alex texted every hour, as promised—more than every hour. He sent Corbin pictures of pies and croissants, scones and cookies. He sent a picture of himself holding up a loaf of bread and said he’d bring it home for dinner. Corbin looked at all of them, running his fingers over the screen of the phone Alex had insisted he get.
It had two contacts in it: Alex and Gareth. Gareth liked to send him text messages consisting entirely of emojis, which Corbin would read the way he read the signs, and respond appropriately.
As he thought of Gareth, a text from him came through. This one was not in emojis.
If Alex dies, I’ll still like you. And I won’t be mad at you for killing my best friend with your love.
Corbin snorted. Gareth’s combination of fierce loyalty and abrasive honesty had become a welcome part of his life over the past year.
If Alex dies I’ll probably die too and save you the trouble, Corbin wrote back. He half believed it was true. That Alex’s removal from the world would erase him.
You’re an idiot, Gareth texted. Tell me if you want me to come over.
Too restless to draw anymore, Corbin found himself wandering the house in thick wool socks, a sweater, and sweatpants that Alex had bought him, insisting that while he should still please sleep naked, it might be nice for him to have something comfortable to lounge around in. As with most things that Corbin had never considered for himself, Alex had been right.
He paced the hallway, watching dust motes dance and glimmer in the milky sunlight, until finally he pushed open the door to Aunt Hilda’s bedroom.
Corbin hadn’t opened this door since the day his aunts’ bodies were taken away. The room was choked in dust and absence, and as Corbin eased inside, it felt like he was falling through into another time.
The bed where the aunts’ bodies had lain was bare, and it drew Corbin’s eye like a lodestone. He walked around the perimeter of the room, running a palm along the wall as if he was drawing a circle. When he got to the bed, he reached a hand out like a divining rod, but he felt nothing dark lurking there.
Slowly, as if he were a child, he climbed up on the bare mattress, and curled at the foot of the bed, as he had that day and for the days that followed.
The aunts had loved him in their own way. He knew that now, though he had never considered it when they were alive. They hadn’t given him what he needed—he knew that now, too—but they hadn’t withheld anything out of malice or stinginess. They simply hadn’t known. And ignorance was painful, but it wasn’t the same as a lack of love.
They had told him the stories they knew, imparted the beliefs they held dear. They had given him the world as they understood it, and tried their best to arm him for it.
He stayed curled there for what felt like a long while, remembering. Remembering Aunt Hilda’s tenderness for her many cats and Aunt Jade’s trembly laugh. Aunt Hilda’s marshmallow root tea and Aunt Jade’s cinnamon toast. Rainy mornings sitting in easy silence and late nights listening to the aunts talk in low voices when they didn’t know he could hear.
He missed them sharply all of a sudden, like a fishhook to his gut. He let it wash over him, and then he let it ebb. As he left the room with a lingering touch to the carvings of the phases of the moon around the four-poster bed, Corbin thought he felt the air heave a creaking sigh and let something go.
That night, Alex and Corbin were both too on edge to talk much, so they read on the couch in front of the fire, Corbin leaning on Alex, Dreidel leaning on Corbin. Corbin couldn’t concentrate and he lost himself in watching the fire instead, imagining it as a cleansing force, protecting them, burning up all the bad energy and leaving them with only peace. Alex couldn’t concentrate much better and soon abandoned his book to run his hands through Corbin’s hair, twisting it around his fingers and braiding chunks of it in complex braids like he would challah dough.
They went to bed soon after, early, eager for the day to end.
Corbin was so exhausted from being anxious all day that he didn’t have the energy to put his fear into words. He didn’t have the energy to look into Alex’s eyes and say I love you. I didn’t even know what love was until I loved you. I’m so afraid I might lose you. Please don’t let this be the last kiss, the last touch. Hold me all night, please don’t let go.
But it didn’t matter, because Alex already knew those things. He knew Corbin’s love as he knew his own, and he pulled Corbin to him in the dark, skin against skin, and held on tight, drifting to sleep on Corbin’s tempestuous seas.
They woke in a cocoon of warm breath and tangled limbs. Outside, snow had been falling heavily for hours, feet of it, grinding the world to a halt.
It was early morning, the sunlight shining through the falling snow.
Corbin came awake slowly, then jerked upright. He pushed at Alex and pressed a trembling hand to his chest.
“You’re alive.”
Alex’s eyes stayed closed, and he grumbled as he batted Corbin’s questing hands away.
“Alex. Alex!”
Alex blinked sleepily. Then he saw Corbin’s grin, as pure and bright as a beam of sunlight.
“I’m alive.”
“You’re alive. Alex.”
Corbin’s smile trembled, and then he burst into tears, great wracking sobs that shook his shoulders.
Alex smiled. Corbin’s emotions were so close to the surface that sometimes they overflowed. Alex was honored that he was allowed to witness it.
He wrapped Corbin in his arms and pushed him down to the bed, then he lay on top of him. It was the way Corbin felt safest—held down, enveloped, overwhelmed. He smiled as Corbin scrabbled at his back and finally got his arms around him where he wanted them. He smiled as Corbin’s sobs turned to soft snuffles and then the occasional shuddering breath. He smiled as Corbin went boneless beneath him.
He smiled because, though he hadn’t known when the day would come that Corbin would trust in this completely, he’d been waiting for it. Now that it was here, he felt as light as the falling snow.
Corbin was whispering nonsense into his neck, and Alex pressed his stubbled cheek against Corbin’s smooth one.
“I love you,” he said into Corbin’s ear. “I will always love you.” And Corbin shuddered beneath him. “I love you,” he said again, and felt Corbin’s relief spark into arousal. It happened for him sometimes—the strength of one feeling transmuting almost instantly into another.
Alex ran warm palms over Corbin’s body beneath the covers, stroking his chest and stomach, his arms and fingers, his hips and thighs. Corbin never opened his eyes, just kept whispering nonsense and whimpering as the spark between them burned hotter and hotter.
“AlexAlexAlexAlexAlex” poured from his lips, and they came together effortlessly, Alex sliding inside Corbin and feeling like he had finally come home. Corbin’s potent imagination often turned sex into something transcendent and magical, and Alex treasured those times.
Now, though, it felt like Corbin was there with him, so present he was like a shard of glass. They locked eyes, and Alex moved them with his thrusts, powerful and insistent. He rocked inside Corbin and the pleasure washed over him. Corbin threw his head back and cried out. They grabbed at each other, fingers digging in, hips thrusting, mouths meeting and tongues tangling, until they were one body—blood and bone and sweat and come, surging together like a tidal wave.
Corbin whimpered as he came, his limbs seizing up, his body quaking, and then going boneless, and Alex’s orgasm burned up the base of his spine and then exploded as he drove himself deep inside.
It was what Corbin always wanted—what Alex always wanted to give him. To be taken over entirely by Alex, every empty space filled up. To feel Alex inside him everywhere and forever.
After, they kissed lazily, hands finding each other. Then they drifted, as the snow fell outside, hearts beating in rhythm, arms and legs braiding together as morning turned to day, day turned into night, and night gathered itself toward another morning. Another, and another, and another.