Except it hadn't.
Vale's hand had been warm. Had been gentle. Had pulled the corruption back from August's skin, and instead of the burning rejection that Knox's grip had delivered, August had felt something he still doesn't have a word for. Safety. Belonging. The sensation of a door opening onto a room he hadn't known existed, and the light inside it was warm, and it was his.
Home. He'd felt home. The first time, and every time since.
He's still staring at the burn when the bathroom door opens.
August doesn't turn around. He doesn't need to. He can feel Vale's presence the way he always can. The holy warmth preceding him, filling the small bathroom with a radiance that cuts through the steam and settles against August's bare skin. The mirror is still mostly fogged, but the streak August cleared is enough to show him the shape of Vale in the doorway behind him. Fully clothed, dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair slightly disheveled.
Vale doesn't say anything.
August can feel the weight of his gaze. It travels. He can track it in the subtle shift of the warmth, the way the holy energy responds to Vale's attention. Down August's spine. Across his shoulders. The curve of his lower back, the lines of his hips, the tattoos and the faded corruption traces and the skin that is, for the first time in years, more healthy than damaged.
August should feel exposed. Vulnerable. A lifetime of hiding his body, from Templars, from strangers, from anyone who might see the corruption and recoil, has made nakedness feel like a tactical error. But Vale has mapped every inch of this body with his hands and his mouth, and the gaze on August's back doesn't feel like scrutiny.
It feels like reverence.
Vale steps forward. Closes the distance. August feels him arrive, the warmth intensifying, the steam parting around him,and then Vale is pressed against his back. Fully clothed against August's bare skin, the fabric of his shirt warm and slightly rough against August's shoulder blades. His chest is solid and broad against August's spine. His arms don't come around him. Not yet. But his presence is encompassing, surrounding August without trapping him.
Vale dips his head and breathes in. His nose and mouth settle against August's damp hair, and August feels the slow, deliberate inhale. Drawing him in. The exhale is warm against August's scalp.
August's eyes close. His body softens against Vale's chest, the tension he didn't know he was carrying dissolving at the contact. He lets himself lean back. Just slightly, just enough to feel Vale's solidity behind him, to feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, to feel held.
Then Vale's hand finds his wrist.
His fingers close around August's left forearm, gently, carefully, and lift it. August opens his eyes and watches in the cleared streak of mirror as Vale brings the burned wrist up between them, turning it so the mark faces the ceiling. Knox's handprint, red and angry, cradled in Vale's palm.
Vale lowers his mouth to the burn.
August expects a kiss. The press of lips he's become accustomed to. Gentle, warm, healing.
Instead, Vale drags his tongue across the mark.
The sound August makes is involuntary and immediate. A sharp, shuddering gasp that he feels in every nerve ending, a full-body shiver that runs from his wrist down his arm and through his chest and into places considerably lower. The sensation is something he doesn't have a word for. The burn is tender and inflamed, and Vale's tongue is hot and wet and deliberate, and the holy magic in the contact pours directly into the damaged tissue, and the combination of pain and healingand the sheer intimacy of the act short-circuits something fundamental in August's brain.
"What..." His voice comes out wrecked. He swallows, tries again. "What are you doing?"
"I hate seeing someone else's hands on you." Vale's voice is low and rough against his wrist, his breath ghosting over the wet skin, and the words vibrate through the burn and into August's bones. His mouth traces the outline of Knox's fingers. Slow, deliberate, possessive. His tongue follows the edge of the palm print with a precision that makes August's knees go weak.
August breathes in deep. Lets it out slow. The steam is thick around them, the mirror re-fogging, the world outside the bathroom reduced to an abstraction.
"It's not the same," August says. "Knox saved my life. His touch isn't... it doesn't mean what yours means."
"I know." Vale lifts his mouth from August's wrist just enough to speak. His lips are still touching the burn, and every word is a brush of sensation against the damaged skin. "I know it's not the same. I know he saved you. I know I should be grateful and nothing else." A pause. His grip on August's forearm tightens fractionally. "I hate it anyway."
It's not rational and they both know it. Knox's burn is a battle wound, a mark of sacrifice, and the possessiveness in Vale's voice has no logical foundation. August is not territory to be claimed, and Knox's handprint is not a rival's brand. But the sound of Vale's voice against his skin, rough with something older than logic, something primal and protective and unapologetically his, sends a heat through August that has nothing to do with steam.
Vale spins him around.
The movement is fluid. One hand releasing his wrist, both hands going to his hips, turning him so his back is to the mirror and Vale is in front of him. Then those hands slide lower,gripping the backs of August's thighs, and Vale lifts him onto the bathroom counter in a single motion. The marble is cold against August's bare skin and he hisses, but Vale is already stepping between his legs, pressing forward, his clothed body against August's naked one, and the temperature ceases to matter.
Vale's hands settle on his thighs. Slide up. His palms find the curves of August's hips, fingers spreading, warm and possessive and sure, and August's breath comes out as a shudder.
"Hi," August manages, because he's sitting naked on a bathroom counter with a fully clothed Templar between his legs and his brain has apparently decided that social pleasantries are the appropriate response to this situation.
"Hi," Vale says, and his mouth quirks, the briefest flash of amusement cutting through the intensity in his eyes, before he leans in and kisses him.
It's slow and thorough and claiming. Vale's mouth moves against his with the deliberate patience of a man who has nowhere to be and intends to take his time, and his hands tighten on August's hips, pulling him forward to the counter's edge so their bodies press flush together. August's legs wrap around Vale's waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back, and his hands find Vale's shoulders. The broad, solid architecture that August has learned by heart over the past week.
