But as they glimpsed the abyss, Osian withdrew. His touch lingered near Meilyr’s ear.
Tell him, part of Meilyr thrummed.Tell him you want to stay like this. Tell him…
Osian covered Meilyr’s hand with his own and kissed the inside of his wrist. ‘Your fingers are freezing. I will run a bath, and call for something hot to eat.’
Disappointment gathered as he slipped away without meeting Meilyr’s gaze, leaving him on his bed, more ruined than if they had—
Enough.
The shyness from the lake returned as they took turns to bathe. How easy it had been there to allow Osian’s current to pull Meilyr to him.
How easy it had seemed in the bed.
Nothing had changed, he reminded himself. It had been an awful day, in the midst of awful times – that was all. He needed to focus.
They dressed and readied for sleep, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Quietly, Osian said, ‘I will sleep on the divan.’
Meilyr did not want that: sharply, with an ache. ‘You are still healing, and…’
And he did not want to be alone. Not after today. He did not want Osian further than he could reach. The truth caught in his throat, but he knew he had to say it – knew Osian would think he was only placating him otherwise.
It still hurt to bare even that much of himself. ‘Could you… stay?’
Osian’s expression softened. ‘Of course.’
They both climbed into that vast, tiny bed, as close to either edge as possible. Meilyr did not dare speak stories into the space between them. Osian did not dare ask for them. They merely lay in the dark, exhausted, trying to breathe slowly.
Eventually, Osian asked, ‘Are you still cold?’
Meilyr was, though not as before. ‘A little,’ he admitted.
He moved his hand, as Osian moved his: slow and tentative, searching blind across the smooth coolness of the sheets. Meeting, their fingers linked, loose and then more firmly.
Heat spread, Meilyr’s entire body responding to that simple, easy touch.
If Osian had pulled him closer, he would have given him everything.
But there was a heady exhilaration in knowing Osian would not without his word.
Let that be enough, Meilyr thought.Just for now.
But his heart beat hungrily, and he found himself wanting. Wanting to give, selfishly.
‘Osian?’
Osian’s attention was immediate, wonderful.
This was the most intimate thing Meilyr had ever done, his pulse loud and heady: terrified, desperate and needing.
Into that slip of dark space between them, he spoke his true, given, Cyngaleg name. Like an oath: a spell, and a prayer.
There was a moment of suspended silence. Then Osian repeated it. The sound was like the sun cresting over the sea, breathing life and warmth across the meadows of Meilyr’s soul.
‘Thank you,’ Osian said.
Meilyr squeezed his hand, unable to say more.