CHAPTER EIGHT

AMANI SANK DOWN AGAINST VICTOR, struggling to catch his breath, licking the taste of his own sweat from his lips as he fell forward to rest his brow to Vic’s heaving chest, bracing his hands against Vic’s ribs to keep from collapsing completely. Fuck. That had been…fuck.

His entire body felt like caramel, running slow and hot, and he burned where Vic’s cock stretched him still, even softening still thick enough to leave his entire world centered on that feeling of tight, aching penetration, so deep and opening him in such painful, delicious ways. He’d come the moment he’d felt Vic spill inside him, the moment those wet runnels hit that perfect trigger point—and he was practically melting, as he shifted subtly and felt fresh slickness sliding between them, licking along flesh to flesh, only to still as Vic let out a pained hiss that bordered on a whimper, clenching his teeth.

“Shh,” Amani whispered, pushing himself up as gently as possible, trying not to overstimulate Vic any further. “Be still.”

Vic subsided, panting; beneath Amani he was a mess of masculine beauty, sweaty and disheveled hair tossed against the pillow, face flushed, eyes darkly dazed, his entire body beaded in runnels and beads of sweat that clung lovingly to those perfectly sharp-edged chisels and ran into every valley and groove. He looked…looked…soft, as if everything defensive and rough and harsh about him had been stripped away to leave this obedient and messy and wonderful thing lying so well-used, so well-loved, submissive and utterly boneless in the aftermath, and Amani’s chest warmed as he curled his knuckles against Vic’s cheek, then trailed them down to gently lay his fingers against Vic’s throat to feel the race of his slowly subsiding pulse.

That…hadn’t felt like strictly business, money and services changing hands.

That had felt almost transcendent, and for a few heated moments there…Amani had utterly lost himself.

But Vic’s arms were still upraised, trembling subtly, and Amani stroked up over them, tugging carefully. “Lower your arms,” he said. “It’s all right. You can move. Are you in pain?”

Vic pulled his arms down with a slowness that said every movement hurt, his fingers twitching. “Sore as if my whole body’s been used as a punching bag. Fuck.” He took a shaky breath, then darted an uncertain look up at Amani. “But…it feels good.”

Curling his hands against Vic’s shoulders, Amani kneaded gently, working at the tense muscle. “Do you have any lotion or oil I can use?”

“There’s some moisturizer in the bathroom?” Vic answered after a dazed moment.

“Hold on. This may hurt a bit.”

It sure as hell hurt Amani, scoring him inside in deep, stroking friction as he tensed his thighs and lifted himself up, pulling his throbbing, sore body off Vic’s cock. Vic let out a soft cry, then clamped it behind his lips, breathing rapidly through his nostrils, trembling against the sheets. Beautiful, he thought again, as he collapsed to Vic’s side—then rolled upright, ignoring the pain in his own body to sit up and trace his fingers down Vic’s arm.

“Relax,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

With one last glance back, he left Vic there in a lovely, debauched mess, pausing only to scoop his caftan up and shrug it back on before padding into the bathroom and taking a moment to wash his hands in the sink. He found the lotion on a little steel shelf in front of a standalone mirror, a stone pump bottle labeled Amber and Onyx in curling script and lined up with shaving implements and Vic’s toothbrush. Amani pumped a tiny little dollop and dissolved it between his fingers, sniffing; the scent was pleasant, mellow with a bit of spice. He picked up the bottle, starting to turn—then pausing as he noticed the two orange prescription bottles at the end of the shelf.

He bit his lip. He shouldn’t be snooping, but curiosity was a wicked mistress…and with a glance around the screen, he caught up the largest bottle and turned it to read the label. Tiazac…?

“Hey.”

He jumped, and the bottle fell from his hand to rattle down into the sink; he grabbed for it, gasping out, “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy, it was just…”

“It’s all right.” Vic padded up behind him, still naked, unashamed and glorious, and bent to slip his arms around Amani’s waist from behind, pulling him in close. “It’s not some great, tragic secret. I have hypertension. Blood pressure like a boiler pump. Apparently, my life is stressful.”

Amani hesitated, then leaned back; it was strange and unfamiliar to lean into anyone this way, to allow this kind of casual closeness, especially when Vic bent his head and nosed Amani’s collar aside to kiss his shoulder. He curled his hand against Vic’s forearm, watching him in the mirror, and set the bottle back down on the shelf.

“How bad is it…?”

Vic paused, then admitted, “…one forty-one over ninety-two.”

“Vic.”

“You’d think I was seventy, right?” Vic let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, riddled with forced diffidence. “The Tiazac helps. Two pills a day, like clockwork.” In the mirror, his reflection tipped his chin toward the other bottle. “The other one’s nitroglycerin. For emergencies.”

“Do you have emergencies often?”

“Almost never.”

Amani turned in Vic’s arms, looking up at him. There was something so perfect about that handsome, masculine face with his mouth turned swollen and pink and soft, succulent flesh full of intimate suggestions, and Amani stretched up on his toes to taste that mouth in a light kiss, lingering to trace the sweet bruised texture, the hot lush flavor, before letting himself sink back down.

“You act like you’re not even sick.”

Vic had closed his eyes, leaning into him…but now he opened them with a breathy sound, his hands curling against Amani’s body, heavy and strong. “I don’t really have a choice.” He shrugged almost helplessly. “I’m young. I still have a chance to turn it around. Just need a few lifestyle changes.”

Amani smiled wistfully. “So I’m part of your healthcare plan?”

“Something like that. Promise I won’t kick over right in the middle of the deed. I’m fine.” Vic’s broad palms slid slowly up Amani’s back, smoothing his caftan against his skin, as if now Vic was trying to soothe him, remind him that he was here and fine and nothing would happen. “You worried about me?”

Sniffing, Amani lifted his chin. “Mildly.”

“Liar.” Vic chuckled. “Your voice changed.”

“It did?”

“There’s something different. Just this little thing, but it tells me maybe, just maybe you don’t hate me as much as you say.”

“I told you I don’t hate you. I just hate what you are.” And he hated how warm his face felt, too. Vic was staying as Overbearing Prick in his phone. Lightly, he pushed at that firm, solid chest. “Go get back into bed and let me take care of you.”

“What about taking care of yourself? Aren’t you sore?”

“I will in a minute. Go.”

Laughing, pulling his arms back and holding his hands up in surrender, Vic drew back and turned to stalk his powerful body back toward the bed, every movement defined in a thousand individual articulations of chiseled muscle coming together into one sleek, beautiful machine. Shaking his head, struggling not to laugh himself, Amani caught up the bottle of lotion again and followed, climbing onto the bed after him and nudging Vic’s side.

“On your stomach. Just like on the table.” While Vic obliged, stretching out on his stomach and leaving the taut dips and rises of his back and ass and thighs invitingly bared for Amani, Amani pumped out a little dollop of lotion into his hand and rubbed his palms together. “I need to take care of you first,” he said. “This is important, for me. What comes after. Making sure that once everything’s done, you’re taken care of, comfortable, and safe.”

Vic turned his head to look at him, propping his chin on his shoulder, this great lazy beast. “I never thought being a dominant involved so much nurturing.”

“It’s mostly what it’s about. For me, at least.” Shifting to his knees, Amani leaned over Vic to begin kneading at his shoulders, working at the points he knew would be sorest from holding his arms in that position while straining and arching for so long; Vic rewarded him with a melting, shuddering groan. “There’s pleasure in sadism and control, in the adrenaline rush of rougher play…but I think deep down it’s about a desire to care for people who want to be cared for.”

“Mm…what about me says I want to be cared for?”

“Everything,” Amani answered softly, as he coaxed one of Vic’s arms out from beneath him to begin working down its length, pushing and circling against tense muscles. “Just…everything. How do you feel?”

“Better,” Vic murmured drowsily. “It’s not burning quite so much in my shoulders.”

“I don’t mean your body.” As he reached Vic’s forearm, his wrist, Amani stroked down to circle his thumb in the center of Vic’s palm, then uncurled his fingers to kiss his fingertips. “You just lost your virginity to a man in a dominance session when two days ago you hadn’t even realized you were bisexual, or possibly submissive.” He peeked at Vic over his own fingers. “How do you feel after that?”

Vic shifted half onto his side, looking up at Amani, pale blue eyes so stark, so clear. Amani hadn’t even realized how much knots of tension had defined Vic’s brow until they’d unraveled to leave it smooth, his expression relaxed.

“Empty,” Vic said after long, thoughtful moments. “In a good way. It’s like…” His eyes unfocused, even as he shifted his captured hand to cup Amani’s cheek, then threaded those rough fingers into his hair. “All the frustrated things I’d been carrying around inside me melted, and just bled out of me. It’s quiet and simple inside my head, and I feel…refreshed. Like I hadn’t realized I was out of air until I could breathe again.”

“Was there anything you regretted? Anything that bothered you?”

“No. Though I…I understand now why you said I might be afraid.”

Amani curled his hand against Vic’s wrist, gripping gently. That catch in Vic’s voice, that hesitation… “Were you? It’s all right if you were.”

“For a minute,” Vic admitted roughly. “For a minute I felt like I was in freefall, and I couldn’t catch myself.” His thumb stroked gently, almost reverently against Amani’s cheek, a shivering touch, fingers working and playing deeper into his hair. “Then I realized I didn’t have to, because you had me…and suddenly I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

That shouldn’t hit Amani so hard, shaking him down to his bones—not if this was everything he said it should be, strictly business, no attachments, no complications. Yet in that quiet, heartfelt confession was everything he’d been missing in every casual one-night encounter; every staged session between strangers just trying to find their way in the dark. Those words…they felt like a light in his dark, just a tiny flicker of candle flame that if he’d let it, could grow until it became as bright as the sun, as gentle as the stars.

He ducked his head, shoving that feeling away. It was too much, when he still felt too bare and raw and tender to the touch, in the aftermath.

“Good,” he muttered thickly. “That’s how I wanted to make you feel.”

He didn’t need to look at Vic to know the man was looking at him—looking in that way he had, as though Amani was the only thing he ever needed to see, the weight of that gaze a thing that could be heavy and smothering…or could be comforting, if he’d let it settle around him and envelop him.

Taking a calming, slow breath, he let go of Vic’s wrist and pulled way from him to reach for the lotion, nudging him to shift position so he could start working on his other arm. Vic settled himself languidly against the tangled duvet once more, eyes lidding, docile as Amani kneaded the lotion into his flesh and searched out pressure points to ease his aches with a touch of relief, savoring every hitching sigh and every great shudder of muscle under smooth, pale hide, writhing against his palms.

After a few moments, though, Vic asked pensively, “Amani?”

Amani paused, hands spread just below Vic’s shoulder blades. “Hm?”

“Why am I like this?”

“Does it need a reason?” He resumed his slow, firm strokes over Vic’s back, trying to soothe him, to ground him with touch. “If it fulfills something for you and isn’t hurting anyone who hasn’t consented to be hurt…it doesn’t matter if you were born this way or something about the way you grew up or some transformative event in your life made you need this.” Bending down, he kissed the back of Vic’s neck, then the peak of sinew just above the groove of his spine. “It’s okay to just let it be without needing to analyze it to pieces, Vic. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to understand yourself, but sometimes people take something good and turn it into something miserable by worrying it until they’ve bitten it away and there’s nothing left but ragged edges.”

“If that doesn’t describe me in about just everything.” Vic laughed raggedly, shoulders shaking. “Have you done this a lot? That it’s so easy for you to just accept.”

“Not a lot, but…I’d figured out by high school that I might lean this way, but experimenting with people my own age…” He wrinkled his nose. “It was eye-opening.”

“I’ll bet. Randy sods with standing rods, overblown hormones, and not an ounce of sense between any of you.”

Amani laughed. “It wasn’t that bad, but…it wasn’t what I wanted. Once I was legally of age, I started…exploring. Local fetish clubs, that kind of thing.” He trailed off, hands stilling on Vic’s back again, resting just above his waist; he liked the warmth of Vic’s skin, the heat that baked off him, and in its own way this was just as soothing for Amani as he hoped it was for Vic, this quietness in the aftermath, this intimacy, this gentleness that let them both come down from the high. “It’s not uncommon to have one-time encounters. People who aren’t in an established dynamic, but still want to find someone for at least one session. It’s a good way to learn your own limits, and how to respect others’.”

Vic propped his cheek against his arm, watching Amani with warm, heavy-lidded eyes, glittering with unvoiced laughter. “I think I’m jealous of guys I’ve never met.”

“I won’t be going back for now.” He gently prodded Vic’s brow, prompting an amused rumble. “Don’t forget that exclusivity clause.”

“Nngh.” Vic buried his face against his arms. “That exclusivity clause is making me feel like a jealous, possessive arsehole when I have no right to be.”

“You’re right. You don’t. But I’m giving you a Mulligan, for now.” Amani gently flicked his ear. “Now hold still.”

Vic chuckled, but subsided, sighing and going still beneath Amani’s touch—until Amani felt as though he was stroking and petting a great wild animal into submission, taming it with his touch as he continued working over Vic’s body in a silence that shouldn’t feel as comfortable and comforting as it did.

As he made his way down the backs of Vic’s thighs to his calves, though, as he glanced up to pick up the lotion again, a bright spot of color on the glossy black glass nightstand caught his attention. A thick hardcover, with banners and many colors and a sword-carrying mouse in a cloak, Mossflower emblazoned down the spine.

He arched a brow, biting back a smile. “Children’s books? I’d never have guessed.”

“Mmn.” It came out as a sighing groan, drowsy, and Vic cracked one sleepy eye open. “I need…simple things, I guess. The politics and art and proper things are for coffee table books, just to be proper. For myself, I’d rather read something as far away from reality as possible—and I loved this series as a boy. I read every last one. Though I think I’m behind by about ten books, now.” He pushed himself up, propping himself on his forearms. “Do you want to borrow it?”

“Aren’t you reading it?”

“I know it already.” Vic shrugged blithely. “I’ll read it again when you give it back to me.”

Just in that, simple and direct was the question of whether or not Amani would be seeing Vic again. Whether he’d be back here Wednesday night, tumbled into Vic’s bed and watching him strain and gasp and struggle against both his need to submit and his need to rebel, his entire body a work of art in constant and tense conflict, pulled out taut to every extreme until he fell apart into this lax, entrancing, dissolved mess he was now. A mess who read children’s books; who gave himself over so willingly to everything Amani asked; who laughed in a way that melted away all the sternness around his eyes to leave him boyish and sweet and yielding and warm. Amani worried at his lower lip, then looked away, wiping the last of the lotion on his thighs and tucking his hair back.

“…I’ll give it a shot.”

Vic only looked at him, winter-blue eyes drawing on him, that small, thoughtful smile playing around his lips an unspoken enticement. One Amani told himself to pull away from, one he told himself to ignore, as he slid back from Vic and unfolded himself to stand.

“I should go,” he said. “I need to get home before it gets too late.”

But Vic reached out, lightly snagging the hem of his caftan in blunt fingertips, arresting him in his tracks. “Stay,” Vic pleaded softly. “Stay the night.”

Amani swallowed, closing his eyes and steeling himself. Some Dominant he was, when one quiet request could make his resolve weaken so quickly. “You only paid for a session, Vic. Let’s not confuse this for anything but what it is.”

“C’mon. Don’t make me Richard Gere this. Do I have to bargain out a rate?” With a sly, self-assured grin, Vic twisted over onto his back, sitting up against the headboard, so shamelessly bared with his cock resting against his thigh. Mock-innocence radiated from him as he stretched one arm out across the bed. “It’s a big bed. Very comfortable. And you won’t have to limp home to…where do you live, anyway?”

“Queens.” Amani rested his hands on his hips, compressing his lips. “And I most certainly would not be limping.”

Vic smirked, a heated glance raking over Amani. “You sure of that?”

Amani eyed him, then sighed and flumped down onto the bed. “I’ll stay, but not because of that pathetic reasoning.”

Sounding far too smug and self-satisfied, Vic draped a warm, heavy arm over Amani’s shoulders and gathered him close—and Amani, damn him, let him. “Then why are you staying?”

“Because,” Amani grumped, and wiggled a hand into his caftan until he found the hidden inside pocket and fished out his phone. “I’m sleepy, it’s cold, and I don’t want to put clothing on.”

“Good enough.”

Amani just grumbled and scrolled through his contacts until he found his mother’s and tapped out a quick text. Staying at a friend’s tonight to study. Will be home in the morning.

Lying to her again, but she didn’t need to know he was curled up in the arms of one of the richest men in New York, after earning more than he normally made in half a year through twenty minutes of pleasure and pain and gasping, sighing perfection—and he wasn’t actually feeling too bad about that.

He waited until his mother’s response popped up—just a few emojis, a heart and smiley and thumbs up, she hated actually typing out words—before he put his phone away again, leaving it on the nightstand.

“Letting your mum know where you are?” Vic asked.

“Giving her a reasonable approximation of where I am. She’ll worry if I don’t.” After a tentative moment, he settled to burrow a bit closer against Vic’s side, tucking his head into the crook of his arm. “I suppose I really won’t fly the nest until I graduate, so she’s used to me being there. Honestly, I think she’d keep me at home until I’m married.”

“I’m almost jealous. I think my mother checked out of parenting ten years ago. Doubt she’d even recognize my face.”

“Where is she? Off sunning in Bora Bora with your father?”

“Probably skiing the Alps just to be contradictory,” Vic replied flatly. “Fire and ice, those two. They really hate each other, but when it’s easier to live separate lives than negotiate a multibillion dollar divorce settlement…”

“I can’t fathom that. Divorce looks a little different in Islam, though, and I suppose that’s what I’m used to.”

“Even though you don’t practice?”

“I still grew up surrounded by the teachings. It’s still part of my way of life in little ways that I never really let go of.” Curling his hand against Vic’s chest, Amani let his eyes drift closed. He could hear Vic’s heartbeat like this, as if setting time and tempo for his words. “My mother is Muslim. Malaki Sunni. I don’t…know what I am. Here, I suppose. I’m here.” He didn’t mind, when Vic’s arm tightened around him as if encouraging him, supporting him. He didn’t mind it at all. “I love her. I respect what she respects. I understand the beauty of her ways, I just…wanted time to find out if her ways are my ways, too. And I needed to be able to learn who I was without being pulled between interpretations that call who I am a sin, or say that I cannot be sin because I am loved by Allah, and what is loved by Allah cannot be wrong.” His eyes slipped open, lingering on the plane of pale sinew stretching before him. “I need to explore and choose for myself. Perhaps, one day, I will be Muslim, too.”

Vic let out a thoughtful rumble, before his breaths stirred warm against Amani’s hair as he kissed the top of his head, gentle and soothing pressure. “She doesn’t mind?”

“No.” Amani chuckled. “She raised me to know my own mind and find my own way. To be just as stubborn as she is. It wouldn’t make sense to reject me for doing just that.”

“Your mum sounds like someone I’d like.”

“I think she’d like you, too.” Amani tilted his head back, looking up at Vic. “She has a fondness for puppies. I’ve been thinking of getting her one.”

“I am not a puppy!”

“…are you sure of that?”

“If your mother’s anything like you, she’s a monster.”

“Only a little.” Chuckling, Amani subsided to settle once more, and reached over to tug at the duvet. “Are we going to sleep like this?”

Vic jostled him lightly with his shoulder. “Someone is on me and I can’t move to get under the covers.”

“…I weigh about as much as your left leg, and you could pick me up without even trying.”

“Ah, but that would be disrespectful to my Master, wouldn’t it?”

Vic’s wicked grin was Amani’s only warning—before Vic tumbled out of bed, taking Amani with him, sweeping him up into his arms with effortless strength. Amani yelped, clutching his arms around Vic’s neck, his stomach bottoming out; with a grand flourish Vic tossed duvet and top sheet back, then dropped them both down in a tangle on the bed, tumbling back with Amani still clinging to him with a little screech and Vic laughing, entirely too satisfied with himself as he dragged the covers over their heads.

Growling, Amani thrashed his arms out, pushing off Vic and to his knees so he could shove the bedding aside. His hair was a mess, and he blew a skein of it out of his face, glaring at Vic.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“Yes,” the wretch said unrepentantly, smirking and reaching up to brush Amani’s hair back. “You can punish me for it later.”

“You—you—oh, I do hate you,” Amani muttered, and flopped himself down to fit sulkily back against Vic’s side.

“I kind of think you don’t,” Vic teased softly, but subsided to just pull Amani close once more.

Amani would have been content to let it go, then—let silence come, and bring with it darkness and sleep and quiet dreams. But after long moments, as stillness settled around them, Vic turned his head to murmur into his hair.

“I really don’t know much about you, do I?”

Amani glanced at him carefully. “Do you need to, for what you want and need me for?”

“No. But I’d like to. I know you’re a childhood cello prodigy, you work part-time as a masseuse, you go to university for musical composition and performance theatre, your family’s from Morocco, your mother is Muslim, you hate my money but you don’t hate me, you’re amazing in bed, and you are—bizarrely—the gentlest sadist I could ever conceive of.” With a thoughtful sound, Vic tilted his head. “Surprisingly short list. Can’t blame me for wanting more.”

More, here, could only mean trouble. Sighing, Amani shifted about to face Vic fully. “Don’t fall in love with me, Victor. You and I? We don’t work, outside the boundaries of this. We’re too different.”

“All right. I promise I won’t fall in love with you,” Vic replied a little too airily, then leaned in and pressed his nose to Amani’s, nudging him with a sly smile. “But I can at least be friendly with the man who just made me come harder than I ever have in my life, can’t I?”

“You’re so vulgar.” With an exasperated groan, Amani slumped. “Fine, friend. What do you want to know?”

“Favorite color.”

“Really?” Amani rolled his eyes, then lifted a hand and wiggled his shimmer-painted nails. “Silver.”

“That’s not a color, that’s a metal.”

“It’s a metal that gave its name to the color.” He poked Vic’s chest. “Your turn.”

“So we’re doing this like badminton? I get to answer too?” Vic grinned. “Black.”

“So edgy.”

“Oh come on, I can’t catch a break with anything.” Vic laughed. “It’s a simple color, but it’s…powerful, somehow. It evokes so many things. Contradictory, sometimes, but the subtlest change in texture or depth and suddenly it means something completely different. Death. Sleep. Bad luck. Good luck. A soft and starless night. The aftermath of a fire. That soothing secret place inside. A mirror, throwing back your shadow self that you may not want to see.”

As he’d spoken, his voice had drifted lower and lower, quieter and quieter, that rolling accented baritone seeming to evoke shadow selves of their own, leaning out from the obsidian gloss of the walls to peer and whisper and wonder at this moment between them. Amani almost caught himself leaning in, almost caught himself wanting to kiss that tempting mouth and feel Vic’s pulse race against his palm again and watch him melt to my sweet boy…

But he made himself look away, huffing softly. “There you go getting poetic on me again.”

“Maybe I’ve the soul of Thoreau.”

“And the mouth of an ass.”

Vic snorted. “I’m insulted.”

“No, you’re not.”

“A little.” But the touch that idly played down Amani’s arm was warm, fond, familiar. “Twenty questions continues. What’s your favorite childhood memory?”

Amani’s answer came to him immediately—like a dream he’d forgotten on waking, only for some small thing to bring it back in full color and life and sound, the heat of the sun baking down, the brightness that made the world waver at its edges. “Sitting on my father’s shoulders as he carried me through the souks of Tangier.”

“Souks.”

“Open markets. Bazaars.” Amani smiled faintly. “Everything smelled like oranges and nutmeg and saffron, and he’d lift me up so high I felt like I could embrace the sky.” He curled his fingers, where he could still feel the ghost of bristling, richly thick hair tangled in his touch. “He had the thickest beard, black as night, and when I started to feel dizzy I’d clutch my fingers in it and hold on.” His hand fell. “My mother always fussed at him for bringing home the wrong things, but he loved going to market and always wanted to, and always took me along. And he…he laughed, so much. He was the kind of man whose laugh could make you forget the worst day of your life.”

“You miss him, don’t you?” Vic asked gently.

Amani almost couldn’t answer. This wasn’t a conversation between strangers. This wasn’t an exchange between a customer and a service provider. This was intimacy, knowing, words and facts and memories and feelings that marked a path through the brambles of misunderstanding and distance that made two people strangers.

He glanced at Vic, darting his tongue over his lips, then said hesitantly, “I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even remember him. I was barely old enough to talk when he was killed. But…” He didn’t want to give in to emotion in front of Vic, but his throat was tight, making his voice rough, no matter how he tried to swallow back and hide it. “But I do. I remember the thick scar on his neck, and the way his djellaba flowed around him like water. I remember his laugh. I remember how he called me his little habibi. He’d buy every flower in the market and bundle them in my arms to bring them home to Mama, but I’d always get to pick one special one to keep for myself.” His breath hitched, his chest hurting. “Is it strange that I remember that? That it still hurts?”

“No. It’s not strange at all.” And then Vic was gathering him close, pulling Amani closer against him, and somehow now Vic was shelter and strength and protective warmth when Amani was supposed to be in control, and yet…and yet, he needed those soft words murmured against him, the rumble of that voice shivering through him as Vic continued, “Some things carve their way inside us and stay. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I suppose not.” Amani’s heart beat far too hard—and he couldn’t. He couldn’t take this, and he forced his voice to calm, to steady, as he tossed back, “Your turn. Favorite childhood memory?”

“I don’t think I have one.” A touch of melancholy haunted Vic’s voice. “Beyond a certain point, my childhood was this…monotonous blank. Just these days of sameness, rolling into each other. Now and then something would explode, some scandal or another, usually my degenerate older brother, and everything would be bad for a while. The air would taste like sour breath.” His grip tightened against Amani, as if holding to him for solid ground. “So I suppose days when it didn’t were all I knew of ‘good.’”

“Your brother caused problems for your family?”

“More than you’ll ever know.” Vic’s mouth turned into a hard, bitter line, his eyes distant and elsewhere, before clearing with a forced smile. “What are your friends like?”

Amani parted his lips to ask, then stopped. He knew where the edges were, and if Amani could change the subject to avoid painful topics, so could Vic. And so he only shrugged, answering, “I don’t really have friends. I have people I’m friendly with, like the other employees at the parlor. Yadira and Brenden. They’re nice, but…” He made a face, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I started with cello lessons so young, and I wanted to just…live in that. I threw myself into it so much that I never had time to make friends, and then as I got older I just…seem to have lost the habit, so I never really connect with my classmates—and where do I have time, with work and school?”

“I know the feeling.” Vic squeezed his arm gently. “Hey. You have me.”

“I don’t even like you.”

“You’re starting to.”

“Am I, friend?” Amani poked the center of Vic’s chest. “You’re arrogant, to assume that.”

“I am.” And Vic caught up Amani’s hand, drawing it to his lips and kissing his knuckles with that mouth that would be Amani’s undoing, warm and firm and tightening the chambers of his heart. “But I don’t think I’m wrong.”

“Mmph.” Amani pulled his hand back. “Don’t you have an early day tomorrow?”

“I have an early day every day. And what time is your first class?”

“Seven PM, but I have to be at the parlor by six AM.”

“Then…” Vic sank down against the pillows, and unceremoniously dragged Amani with him. “We should probably sleep.”

“Oof.” Amani tumbled down, then grumbled and rearranged himself to stretch out, tangling his legs against Vic’s body and pillowing his head to one strong shoulder. “We probably should.”

“Goodnight, friend.”

Just for that, Amani smacked Vic’s chest—though he wasn’t quite sure when he’d started smiling. Ass. “Goodnight.”

Vic reached over Amani’s head and flicked the lamp off, casting them into darkness where the only light came from the city reaching in for them from outside, brighter than even the stars. Amani closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of Vic’s breaths lull him, until that deep voice rumbled beneath him again, soft and sleepy.

“Amani?”

He opened one eye. “Hm?”

“You’re not nearly as hard as you pretend, are you?”

He smiled faintly. Did he pretend to be so very hardened, then? “Everyone has a soft side. I just try not to wear mine on the surface.”

“Do you ever want to?” Vic asked, and Amani went still, gaze fixed on the far wall, and the night stretching away, away, ever away, as if the horizon tried to flee and yet was always, always caught by the sun.

“Sometimes,” he admitted softly, then turned away, twisting over to give Vic his back, and quietly, desperately willing himself to sleep.