For a long moment, neither of them moved. They lay tangled together, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each otherthrough the layers of sweat-damp cotton. Gregor’s arms were trembling from the sheer magnitude of what had just happened, the tectonic shift of two people who had circled each other for years finally colliding.
Fergal spoke first. “If you apologize for that, I will end you.”
A laugh burst from Gregor—genuine, helpless, the kind of laugh he hadn’t produced in so long that the muscles required for it felt rusty. It shook through both of them, vibrating where their bodies were still pressed together, and Fergal grinned against his shoulder with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d achieved something extraordinary.
“I wasn’t going to apologize,” Gregor said, and meant it.
“Good.”
Fergal pulled back to look at him, and his expression—flushed, sated, glowing with a happiness so naked it made Gregor’s chest ache—was worth every wall he’d ever built and torn down.
“We ruined our clothes,” Fergal observed, glancing down at the mess between them.
“We did.” Gregor didn’t move.
“We should probably clean up.”
“Probably.” He still didn’t move.
Fergal’s grin widened. “You don’t want to let go of me.”
“No,” Gregor admitted because what was the point of pretending when the evidence was literally soaking through both their pants? “I don’t.”
Fergal kissed him—soft, sweet, tasting of salt and satisfaction. “Then don’t. The laundry can wait.”
“Tempting, but we both know we’ll regret that tomorrow morning when everything is crusty and disgusting.”
Fergal made a sound. “Ew, don’t say crusty. It ruins the mood.”
“Not as badly as waking up tomorrow will ruin it if we don’t get cleaned up.” He kissed Fergal tenderly. “Stay. I’ll do it.”
It cost him more than it should’ve to let go of Fergal, even for a few minutes, and get up and walk to the bathroom. He chucked his pants into the laundry bin—their shared laundry bin now, he supposed—and cleaned himself with a warm washcloth. When he met his own eyes in the mirror, the expected self-loathing wasn’t there, and neither was the regret he’d half-counted on. No, all he saw was contentment. Satisfaction.
He found new pajama pants, then grabbed a pair for Fergal as well, and wet a washcloth for him. Fergal hadn’t moved, his eyes heavy with sleep as he peeked between his eyelashes at Gregor. The smile that tugged at Gregor’s lips came so naturally that it almost shocked him. He gently moved the covers back and tugged Fergal’s pants down.
He carefully cleaned him, then patted him dry. “Lift your hips.”
It took less than thirty seconds to get Fergal into his clean pants. Gregor tossed everything into the laundry bin, then washed his hands again and slid back into bed. He settled on his back and held out his arm in invitation until Fergal was tucked against his chest—Fergal’s head on his shoulder, Fergal’s arm across his waist, Gregor’s arm around his back.
“Gregor?” Fergal’s voice was drowsy, already sliding toward sleep.
“Mm.”
“Let’s do this again.”
Gregor pressed his lips to Fergal’s hair. “Sleep well, baby boy.”
The words slipped from a place he’d been storing them for so long that they’d become a part of him. He held his breath. What would Fergal do? How would he react?
He didn’t. Fergal had already fallen asleep, safe in Gregor’s arms, and so Gregor breathed out again, relaxing.
In this bed, in this room, with Fergal’s heartbeat slowing against his ribs and Fergal’s breath warming his collarbone, he felt something he’d forgotten existed. Something warm. Something that whispered, in a voice that sounded remarkably like Fergal’s, that the weight didn’t have to be carried alone. Something awfully close to peace.
He held his king in the dark and watched over him while he slept. For the first time since the assassination, the thoughts that usually kept him awake were quiet enough that he could hear, underneath them, the steady rhythm of Fergal’s breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
The most important sound in the world.
