August's discomfort radiates between them, not pain exactly, but the raw vulnerability of someone whose defenses have beenstripped away. His hands are fisted in Vale's coat, not pushing but not pulling, caught in the space between resistance and need. Vale doesn't know how to prove himself to this man. Doesn't know how to make him understand that the only thing Vale wants right now is to keep him alive.
That's what he tells himself, anyway. It would be more convincing if his pulse weren't hammering, if August's breath against his throat weren't making his thoughts scatter, if every point of contact between them didn't feel charged.
The veins on August's arms fade. But the ones at his neck, thick and dark, climbing toward his jaw and plunging beneath his collar, are worse than before. A roadmap of corruption that extends to wherever the damage originates on his chest, and Vale's healing hasn't reached it. His hands have traced August's arms back to health, but the source is deeper, and reaching it would require more contact than August's boundaries allow.
More contact than Vale trusts himself to handle with any kind of restraint.
The decision isn't his to make.
But August is practically vibrating in his grip. Breathing ragged. Hands shaking where they're twisted in Vale's coat. Each exhale ghosts across Vale's neck, and Vale is very carefully not thinking about the heat pooling low in his stomach, about the way August's body fits against his, about what sounds August might make if Vale's hands went further.
He shuts that down. Hard. It doesn't shut down so much as it dims. Smoldering. Waiting.
Instead, he does something either very brave or very stupid. He presses his palm flat against the center of August's clavicle, right where the dark veins pulse against pale skin. His fingers skim the base of August's throat.
The skin beneath his hand is shockingly cold, but it warms immediately, responding to Vale's magic as though August'sbody has been waiting for it. The corruption gathered there recoils, the thick black veins retreating downward beneath August's shirt, fleeing from Vale's touch.
Vale braces for the flinch. For the walls to come back up, for August to pull away and remind him of the rules he just broke.
Instead, August exhales.
It's a slow, shuddering release, and the tension drains out of him in a wave. His body softens against Vale's, the rigid trembling dissolving into something boneless and trusting, and his hands shift on Vale's coat from clenched fists to open palms pressed flat against his chest. He doesn't pull closer. But he stops holding himself away.
The sound that leaves him is quiet enough that Vale almost doesn't catch it. Almost. A soft, involuntary thing, relief and need and something achingly close to gratitude, and it goes through Vale like a blade.
The heat in his stomach is a wildfire now. Having August in his arms, feeling that cold skin warming under his hand, the way August's breathing has gone slow and deep and shivery, the way his head tips forward until his forehead nearly rests against Vale's jaw, it's testing every ounce of discipline Vale possesses. He wants to slide his hand lower. Wants to press his palm beneath the hem of August's shirt where the corruption originates, to follow the veins down across the plane of his stomach, to map every inch of damage and chase it all away. He wants to know what other sounds he could draw from those lips if his hands kept moving.
He restrains himself. With effort that feels heroic in the moment and that he'll never speak of afterward, he keeps his hand where it is, against August's collarbone, against the base of his throat, steady and warm and going no further.
This is healing. For August's benefit. Not Vale's gratification. The way August has melted into him, the way his body hasbecome pliant and warm and trusting, it's relief from pain. Just relief.
Even if Vale's heartbeat suggests otherwise.
The black veins don't disappear entirely. They fade and retreat, hiding beneath August's clothes in places Vale aches to follow. But August's face is clear. His features are unmarred, those sharp cheekbones and grey eyes no longer obscured by creeping darkness, and Vale counts it as a victory even as his hands are still shaking when he finally makes himself pull them away.
August draws back just enough to look at him. He doesn't let go entirely; his palms stay pressed flat against Vale's chest, fingertips curled slightly into the fabric. His grey eyes are luminous in the warehouse's dim light, wide and storm-dark, and there's something in them that makes Vale's breath catch. Not fear. Not gratitude.
Recognition. August is seeing him clearly for the first time and is terrified of what he's found.
"I thought I had it," August says. His voice is rough, scraped raw, and he inhales sharply, chest expanding under the ghost of where Vale's hand had been, as though his lungs are remembering what it means to work without pain. He sits up with slow, reluctant movements, every inch of distance between them visibly costing him something.
"Clearly," Vale says. The word comes out flat and dry, covering the relief underneath with cynicism the way he always does, because the alternative is admitting that watching August struggle across the warehouse floor while he stood there doing nothing had been one of the worst moments of his very long life. He forces his hands to his sides. They're still sitting on the warehouse floor, close enough that August's knee is pressed against his thigh, a point of contact that neither of them is willing to break. Close enough for Vale to see the way August'spupils are still blown wide, the flush climbing his neck. "Is it closed? For good?"
"It should be." August catches his bottom lip between his teeth, a gesture that obliterates Vale's concentration so thoroughly he has to look away for a second. "I've never done this before, so I don't have precedent to draw from. But the anchoring points are destroyed. The tear has no structure to hold it open."
Not the most confident answer. But August is alive and breathing and warm in front of him, and that feels like something Vale hasn't earned and doesn't deserve. They need to do this two more times and hope it doesn't destroy August in the process.
"I suppose we'll find out if it rips back open," Vale offers. The best reassurance in his repertoire.
He stands and extends his hand.
August looks at it for a moment. Then he reaches up without hesitation, no flinch, no calculation, and his fingers slide against Vale's palm. Warm. Wonderfully, impossibly warm, where hours ago they'd been cold. Vale pulls him up with careful strength, and August sways the moment he's vertical, his body listing toward Vale. Vale's free hand finds his waist to steady him.
August doesn't flinch.
He lingers there for a beat, two, close enough that Vale can feel the warmth of his breath, can see the fine dark lashes framing those grey eyes, can count every faded vein on the elegant line of his throat. Then August steps back, and the reluctance in the movement is visible enough that Vale's chest aches with it.
Progress, Vale thinks. Dangerous, terrifying, almost certainly catastrophic progress.
