It had been a long time since Micha had found even a fleeting trace of beauty in the base mechanics of sex. Even clothed in Thomas’s quiet conviction, the idea seemed absurd and impossible. “I brutalised you.”
“And I will not allow you to touch me in that fashion again.”
A cold, deeper than the rain, settled over Micha. Unbidden came the image of Thomas sprawled beneath him on autumn leaves, helpless, abandoned, and utterly his. Micha swallowed. “That’s ... fine.”
Thomas leaned over and kissed his cheek with the ghost of a smile. “I said in that fashion. You may be as rough as you need to be with me, but I won’t let you use me as though I were not there. As though you sought nothing but pain and ugliness and emptiness in our coming together. It seems to me almost a form of sacrilege.”
“Sacrilege,” repeated Micha, with a faint, mirthless laugh. “It’s all sacrilege, Thomas.”
But Thomas only shook his head.
“You are such a stubborn fucker.”
He smiled. “In my way.”
Micha turned his gaze back to the fire, and when he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper. “I wish ... I wish I was different.”
“You can be anyone you wish to be.”
“Don’t. It’s not that simple.”
“Well, as it happens, I have grown rather accustomed to you as you are. Even fond.”
“Fond?”
Thomas gave him a mischievous look. “Very fond.” He reached out and caught one of Micha’s rain-damp curls between his fingers, pressing out the water and letting the hair spring back. “You may not be the easiest man, but you can be very kind when you wish. Very warm. Very clever. And very amusing. And I’m sufficiently superficial to find your beauty arresting.”
Micha coughed, but he felt the heat rising to his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have ...”
“No,” agreed Thomas, “you shouldn’t. And now I understand better of what may be done between two men, you may be sure you will not do it again.”
Micha dropped his head wretchedly onto his knees.
Thomas nudged his shoulder reassuringly. “I have as good as forgotten.”
“Have you, uh, forgiven?” mumbled Micha.
“Forgiveness is, thankfully, a problem for the Lord. And I shall remember with great joy the tightness of your hands upon my hair. The taste of your—” Micha looked up in time to see Thomas flush scarlet. “Oh my word.”
“Cock. The taste of my cock.”
Thomas nodded. “Precisely,” he said primly. “Which I hope to experience again, under more convivial circumstances.”
For a moment, Micha felt almost like he could smile. But it was still a little too soon, and the more Thomas tried to comfort him, the worse he felt. “I’m so sorry.” The words rushed out of him in a choked torrent. “I’m so sorry. If only there was something I could say or do.”
There was a pause.
“There is.” Thomas darted a sidelong look at him. “If you want. And only if you want.”
Micha wished. But he had learned his harshest lessons well. “What is it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Perhaps you could,” said Thomas softly, “ask me again what you asked in the rain.”
“I can’t remember what I said. I said all sorts of things.”
“I remember. You said, ‘Make me feel.’”
Micha remembered only bile and poppies. “Did I?”
