The moment that followed was heavy and silent, thick enough between them Dara could’ve twisted it in his grasp like fabric.
“You aren’t powerless.” Dara’s voice wavered. “You—Noam, even if you didn’t have magic, you wouldn’t be powerless. You’re so ... you’re the bravest person I know. The stupidest too.” That earned a broken sort of laugh from Noam. “But. You’re strong. He won’t break you like he—”
His throat closed around the rest.
Noam’s inhale was sharp, audible. He lifted his hand and slid chilly fingers into Dara’s shorn-short hair. “You aren’t broken, Dara.”
A soft noise pulled itself up from Dara’s chest, not quite a sob, and Noam’s fingertips pressed in against the back of his head, his breath warm on Dara’s lips—and whatever that sound was, it was muffled against Noam’s mouth when Noam kissed him.
Dara’s heart couldn’t possibly keep beating this fast. It wasn’t sustainable—and yet he never wanted to stop feeling this way, like something was finally opening up in his chest ... blooming, a flower he’d thought wilted long ago.
He stepped closer, pinning Noam between himself and the sharp edge of the dresser, one hand finding Noam’s hip as he kissed Noam back—more, harder, like he could make up for lost time. Noam’s body felt solid beneath Dara’s hands in a way nothing had in years. He couldn’t get enough.
If the kiss after Dara’s return had been messy and needy and desperate, this one was all of that in a different way. This was stained with hurt and betrayal and resentment—but there was affection, too, a deeper and more vibrant kind of love. Dara had worried he’d lost the capacity for that when he lost his telepathy. That without the ability to read someone’s mind, he’d never know them well enough to want them like this.
But god, he wanted Noam. He wanted himso much.
He slid his hands under the hem of Noam’s shirt; Noam’s telekinesis kicked in a second later, undoing the buttons so Dara could push the fabric off his shoulders. The shirt dropped to the floor behind them, Noam kicking it out from underfoot.
Dara’s breath froze in his lungs.
“Noam—”
His touch skimmed along Noam’s ribs, skirting the inflamed skin along his flank. Bruises burst like so many dark nebulae, darting down toward his hip. More, on Noam’s arms and shoulder.
“It’s nothing,” Noam said, both his hands back on Dara’s face, cupping it between them so Dara had no choice but to meet Noam’s eyes again. “Sparring. I swear.”
Sparring.As if a thin guise of pedagogy made the violence any easier to swallow.
Dara shook his head roughly, fingertips digging in at Noam’s wrist, but Noam just said again—“I swear”—and kissed him, and Dara ... Dara couldn’t. He couldn’t push him away. Not anymore.
Noam took a step forward, and Dara stepped back, letting Noam press them across the narrow room until Dara’s calves bumped up against the edge of the bed. Noam stripped off Dara’s shirt slowly, like he wanted to remember every inch of skin he revealed. He kissed the line of Dara’s collarbone and murmured against Dara’s neck, “I love you.”
A shiver unwound in Dara’s stomach. He caught Noam’s mouth with his, kissed him hard enough to press his answer into Noam’s lips, his body, his skin.
The bed felt smaller when they fell onto it, limbs tangled and Dara’s hands combing through Noam’s hair. He couldn’t stop needing more—not when Noam tracked kisses down his chest, his stomach—not when they’d both shed their trousers and it was skin on skin, friction and heat.
In the lamplight, Noam’s body glowed gold. Dara trailed his touch along Noam’s unbruised shoulder. Noam’s eyes were half-lidded, shadowed beneath his lashes.
Dara shifted beneath him, curling a leg around Noam’s waist and drawing him down close. Noam’s lips parted with a soft exhale.
“Do you have a condom?” Noam asked. “Lube?”
Dara nodded, but Noam still hesitated, one hand hovering over Dara’s hip.
“I’ve never done this before,” Noam said—then his cheeks flushed, and he added: “Well, that—I mean, I’ve never—not like—”
Dara didn’t want the details.
“It’s okay,” he said, pressing a finger to Noam’s lower lip to shut him up. Then Dara grinned, the dangerous kind of grin that used to turn Noam’s thoughts dark and liquid. “I’ll teach you.”
Still—knowing this was new, at least for Noam, that there was one thing Dara could give him that Lehrer hadn’t—it tasted, fiercely, of victory. That coal burned in Dara’s chest as they moved together, Noam whispering in Dara’s ear the kinds of words Dara had always wanted him to say. On Noam’s voice they were soft and low, rough like Noam’s kisses became, and later—when they were both lying still and spent on that slim bed—they smoldered in Dara’s mind like they’d never go out.
Noam’s brow tucked in against Dara’s chest, each exhale hot against Dara’s overwarm skin. His hand had gone still on Dara’s stomach; Dara wanted to memorize the sight of his fingers against Dara’s ribs.
After several moments Noam lifted his head. “It just occurred to me ...,” he said. “What happened to Ames?”
Dara laughed. “Oh, she got the picture, I think. She probably won’t come up until you go down there and tell her it’s safe.”
