He was aware of Kyle’s hands on him for a while. Working muscles in his arms, his lower back a little later, even his thighs. And then some amount of time must have passed, because the next thing he was really aware of was a dark, quiet room and Kyle lying next to him, hair damp and smelling freshly showered.
“Mmm. Magic man.” He had to smile. Had to.
“Mmm. Hi. You don’t have to be awake, baby.” Kyle moved closer, like gravity had just pulled him in.
“Love how you smell.” He let himself snuggle in and enjoy, feeling like a king—happy and melted and comfortable.
“You crashed a long while ago, and I popped in the shower. How do you feel?”
“Like I been taken care of. Thank you. You didn’t have to, but you did.” He took a long, lazy kiss, pouring his thanks right into it.
“Mmm,” Kyle hummed, sounding happy, willingly accepting his kiss. “I wanted to. You didn’t seem like yourself. You looked like you needed some love.”
“You know how it is—you pour yourself out, and then you pour more and more, and then you’re bleeding music.”
“I know exactly. You need to think about something else, right? Feed your heart and your mind, and let your soul recover. We’ll do something fun tomorrow. Something totally different. Maybe get up high and see the view. You want to? Or go shopping. Or walk in Central Park.”
“Yes. Yes, we can explore. Together.” He loved that. He loved to hear the beat of somewhere new.
“See? You sound better already.” Kyle kissed him, smiling against his lips.
“All you, hmm?” They were basking like gators on the bank.
“I’ll take the compliment.” Kyle hummed at him again and tightened an arm over his chest. “Sleep, Colt. We both need it, and we don’t want to lose the day tomorrow.”
“No. No, we don’t. I want to be with you.” He wanted to go play and know all the new things there were.
“You are with me, baby. We’ll get up to some fun tomorrow.” Kyle rubbed his chest, soothing him to sleep.
6
The nextmorning was brilliantly sunny, and Kyle pulled open every curtain in his home studio, letting the sunbeams warm the floor. A sunny day called for Santana, yes? He started up his music and let it inspire him, feeling that perfect burn as he stretched his hamstrings and his glutes on the barre.
It took that whole first song and two more before he was warmed up enough to dance, and he marked out the steps to a piece he was performing with two other men in the new program. He obviously didn’t need to rehearse the steps, because his mind kept wandering away from what he was working on to the fascination of the man he’d left sleeping in his bed.
That was it. Colt was fascinating. So strange and wonderful, and Kyle was drawn to him in every way. Physically? They could just burn each other down when they wanted to, or Colt could carefully shatter him with one touch and then put him back together piece by piece. He was drawn to the musician, the artist, Colt’s creative mind.
A week ago he and Colt had been drinking and singing in a bar. Colt was young and looked it; he was full of energy and wonder at the city he’d landed in. But last night Colt just looked exhausted. Burned out. Granted, they’d kept each other up nearly all night at least twice. But even so, Colt had just allowed himself to be spent, played until his fingers were sore and beyond.
If he ever tried to dance like that, he’d… well, he’d be useless. He’d never allow himself to dance to exhaustion. Colt either didn’t know his limits, ignored them, or simply had no perspective when he was working.
He heard Colt’s lilting words, spoken even in his mind in that smooth, sexy accent—Robert Johnson went to the crossroads… and sold his soul for the blues.
Huh.
Even exhausted, Colt was magical. One might call it intuition or empathy, but there was more to it than that. There were things about art, about creativity, about being human that he just seemed to understand, deeply, as truth. And on top of that, Colt’s faith, his spirituality wasn’t only surface deep, or habit; it was in his skin. It was a part of his soul.
Kyle didn’t understand faith, not like that. He felt as though he could study the man forever and Colt’s own truth could still slip right through his fingers if he didn’t pay very close attention.
Work, Kyle.
He changed the music and ran through the piece again in his mind, then took up his starting position and cleared his thoughts to focus on telling the story. The story of what is left when a man’s true love chooses another.
The dance was everything, emotion running down his spine and out to his extended fingertips and pointed toes. That, combined with the exertion as every muscle fired at once, lifting him off the floor and powering him through turns, was as exhilarating as it was exhausting.
The music was appropriately powerful in parts, soft and subtle in others, and he was easily swept into the drama. He hadn’t choreographed this piece, and he was glad about that, because the steps were not his own, but something he’d had to make his own. Still, that didn’t stop his heart from breaking every single time.
When it was over and he was panting, his chest aching with emotion, he looked over, finding Colt sitting in the other room where he could see, cross-legged on the floor, guitar in his lap, one tear sliding down his cheek.