Ellisandre

Ellisandre stayed in vigil, hand against Sevastyan’s ribs into the small hours of the morning.

When he woke, it was his heartbeat and his breath that told them first.

He held still, using his senses for several long moments.

Ellisandre withdrew their hand, signaling that they knew he had returned.

He’d always been like this, waking and then listening, smelling, feeling his environment, trying not to give away that he was aware of where he was.

He rolled over slowly, blinking away sleep. “You stayed.”

“I stayed.” Ellisandre offered their hand back, palm warm from where it had been resting against his skin.

He took it in both of his. “What time is it?”

“Three a.m. You needed sleep.”

He touched the back of his hand where the IV had been. “Drugs?”

“Saline. Hydration. You needed it.”

Sevastyan sagged against the couch. “Does this . . . are we . . . is there . . . what am I now, to you?”

“Mine.” Ellisandre squeezed his hand in theirs. “You are mine. And we’ll find a way, together.”

“Even if I can’t say it?”

Ellisandre let all the certainty of the long wait flood their voice. “Even if you can’t.”

Sevastyan sagged into the couch, gripping their hand. The pressure of his need was a balm against Ellisandre’s chest.

He blinked and looked around the room as if lost and trying to collect something. “I feel worse, and better.”

“You had a lot to grieve. And no place to do it.” Ellisandre squeezed Sevastyan’s hand. “I’ve cleared my responsibilities until morning. You can stay here as long as you need. My preference is that you don’t go, not for a few days.”

“If I could . . .” He looked up, begging with his eyes.

They squeezed his hand in forgiveness. “I know. You said. Many times.”

“I can come back.”

“You will.”

Sevastyan looked at them then, eyes aching. His walls, at least, had come down, even if his secrets remained locked. “I want to stay. I wish I could stay.”

“Someday, you will.”

“Someday, you might hate me as much as I hate myself.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why?”

“There is not enough free space in my mind for the number of thoughts that would take. I could never hate you with the intensity you hate yourself.”

Sevastyan closed his eyes. “That’s not how hate works.”

“So many ways to measure things. And many of them valid.” Ellisandre stood and went to the kitchen, coming back with warm water and soft biscuits. “Start with the water.”

He sat up slowly and accepted the water.

He looked at his wrist, glistening with salve over the places where he’d torn the outer layers of the skin away.

Gingerly, he pulled off the blanket, checking the rest of the damage, finding his ankles, the bruises on his ribs, the deeper cuts closed with tiny bands of medical tape. “I slept through this?”

“You’re tired, Vast. And you were safe. On some level, you knew it, or you wouldn’t have fallen apart.”

“That’s the worst of it. I know you’re safe. And I still can’t say what I need to say.”

“Perhaps I’m not the dangerous one. Perhaps you are.”

Sevastyan stilled, fingertips pressed against the warm surface of the mug of water. “Everyone is dangerous to themselves.”

Then he drank.

“What next?” he asked, when the water was gone, and the biscuits and another mug, this time of tea.

“You leave when you have to leave. And you come back whenever you can. I have two burner phones, one for you, one for me. I’ll keep mine on me. You call whenever and wherever. I will answer. Meanwhile, we date.”

“Date?” Sevastyan’s eyes widened.

“We date.” Ellisandre leaned forward. “Art galleries, coffeeshops, museums, pizza and movies here. Sex. Kisses. Time. Together. We date, like we’re starting over.”

“That’s what you want?”

“That’s what we need.” Ellisandre took Sevastyan’s wounded wrist in their hands.

“I know a little of what your life has been like. I know you have some fragmented, damaged ability to trust. That you may not even remember the feeling of trust, of being protected. So we’ll teach you. In small packages of time. When you’re alone with me,

you aren’t the international art dealer smooth-talking the rich and powerful. You’re not the undercover criminal agent moving valuables across borders. You’re just mine. I’m deadly enough for both of us.”

“You want to protect me?”

“I’ve always wanted to protect you. But we’ve been on the opposite lines of battle. I can’t take you out of the war without violating your heart, but I can give you moments outside of the bullet zones. And maybe you can start to know what it means to breathe.”

“Most people would say that I need to remember to breathe.” He sounded bitter.

“There’s no remembering for you, Vast. Breathing is something you were learning to do under my hand, before I left. Those lessons were left unfinished.”

“I can’t breathe and be who I have to be.”

“You’ll learn, or we’ll change who you have to be. I will bend the world for you, Vast.”