Ah, yes. It’s always nice to know that you’re respected and holding together a professional work environment.

Tugging a hand through my hair, I blink when it comes away with dried mud dusted across my fingers, then sigh and flop into the leather bound chair beside Danny’s desk. One thing I have to give him; even if his desk is a mess and his studio is freezing, he keeps some damned nice furniture. If he’s gonna be trapped down here, he might as well be comfortable.

“What do you have for me?” I should know better than to try to distract him. Considering that the dumb fuck is finishing up another project even while he writes the preliminaries for Apes, he probably hasn’t heard another voice for a week solid. He isn’t going to let a little thing like actual business distract him.

The chair creaks as he leans closer, eyes narrowed, to study me. Then he reaches out, fingers rough from years of playing pretty much any instrument he could get his hands on plucking a leaf out of my hair. With a crooked little smirk, he holds it up between his fingers and waits.

I sit back far enough to glare at him. “You’re like a terrier.”

He doesn’t blink, just rolling the leaf back and forth between his fingers.

“A very short terrier. Who bounces around. And yips.”

“An interesting comment, coming from the man whose head bobs around like one of those dashboard dogs.” Danny stretches his neck until something pops, then folds one leg up against his chest. Which draws his jeans tight in some interesting places. Which is something I shouldn’t be noticing. Bad, bad me.

Yes. There should be a spanking-

Fuck. Where is the off-switch for my brain?

I pull a hand through my hair and wince when I hit a snag. I even combed my hair this morning, damn it. Why do I bother?

“Are you going to let me see the cue if I refuse to tell you what happened?”

His eyes flick over me in a series of several slow glances, taking in the torn and muddy jeans, the ripped shirt, and the dirt in my hair. Then he shrugs and folds his arms on his knee, laying his chin down. He should look ridiculous, but he doesn’t tend to do many things he should. “Maybe.”

“Is that a no?”

One side of his mouth tilts up. “Maybe.”

Yeah, that’s a no. I tilt my head at him. “Can I trust you to write the cues by yourself?”

“Yes. That is, if you want Apes to be the first ever all kazoo score.”

Dear God, he actually said that with a straight face. I narrow my eyes right back at him, which probably just looks silly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Maybe it’s because he’s been spending time with Johnny, or maybe because it’s always been there, but either way, Danny has great silent movie eyes. Because somehow, with the lift of one eyebrow and the slightest tilt of his head, he manages to convey “is that a challenge?”, “don’t tempt me”, and “I would like to have sex with you, right now, on the floor” all at once.

Okay. So maybe that last one was my imagination. But the first two get through just fine.

Muttering something under my breath, I try to fold myself into the same pose he’s put himself in and wince as my side pulls. So much for that. I have to settle for resting my hands on my thighs so I don’t start gesturing and possibly knock something over.

Don’t laugh. It’s happened before.

“I was trying to teach the extras how to do something.” That’s apparently not enough, because Danny just continues to look at me. “We’re shooting the big battle scenes now, on all those hills out in Maui… you saw them. And you know how the apes were supposed to kinda lope on all fours,” I can’t help illustrating this with my fingers on his desk, which sounded good in my head but mostly looks like a kneecapped baby gazelle, “like so. And the stunt directors wouldn’t do it right, so…”

“So you tried to teach them how to do it yourself.” Danny has that ‘I should’ve known’ quality in his voice, like he’s struggling not to roll his eyes.

“Exactly! Except… uh… it rained. Before we got there. And, you know, it’d be nice if somebody had told me this in advance, because the second I got on the hill my foot slipped and… Danny? Danny…?”

For almost every word, Danny’s head dropped closer and closer to his knee until he ended up doubled over. Now he’s shaking, making this strange gasping noise that’s getting muffled by his leg. I reach out and smack him between the shoulderblades, because I can’t think of anything else to do.

Then he lifts his head and I smack him for a different reason entirely. “It’s not funny!”

For whatever reason, that just sets him off into an all out evil cackle that lasts for a good minute and a half and leaves him shaking and drained, draped against the seat. “Oh, God,” he moans finally, his breath still hitching, and I would need a crane to drag my mind kicking and screaming out of the gutter. “Oh, my God, you are such a spaz.”

I cross my arms and glare at him. I don’t even bother to pretend I’m not sulking. “Are you done?”

“No. But if I keep laughing at you I’ll hurt myself.” Clearing his throat finally, he sits upright enough to look at me. “And you didn’t get a chance to change clothes?”

“No. I barely caught my flight as it was. Fuck, I didn’t even have time to clean off the scratches-“

The humor drains out of his eyes, remarkably fast. “Don’t tell me you actually managed to hurt yourself.”

“There were rocks. Lots of them. Sharp, too. And don’t give me that look, Danny, Johnny already chewed me out as it is.”

Those dark eyes narrow at me again. I shouldn’t have the urge to turn my throat. “Did he chew you out about the fact that you were rolling in mud and didn’t bother to clean out the cuts?”

“Well, no, but-“

“So I’ll chew you out about that, then.”

I’m not sure whether to be touched or offended. I’m going to settle for both. “I’m not five. And I’m not going to break. And I am sure as fuck not the fragile, helpless thing my publicist seems to want to paint me as-“

He gives me one exasperated look under deceptively long lashes, then explains kind of tersely, “Tim. Consider your luck while shooting. You make yourself sick every fucking time, without fail, since Batman, which means that you’d probably catch gangrene or something and I am NOT going to put in a fucking wheelchair ramp to my studio if they have to amputate your leg.”

I blink at him, caught off guard. “Um…”

His glare twitches up into something slightly less dark as he bends to fish for something under his desk. “Besides. Pouring peroxide on your open wounds might make up for the past twenty years of torture.”

“So your evil plot comes to light.”

“Yep.” Danny makes an odd growl of triumph that manages to go straight down my spine and between my legs as he comes up with a boxful of peroxide, bandages, and etcetera. When I look at him sideways, he holds up his palm to show the scars from where he split his palm open playing guitar and offers me a grin. In return, I try to pretend that I don’t want to lean down and drag my tongue along the longest scar, shiny and about a shade paler than the skin beside it. And considering that this is Danny we’re talking about… I’m guessing it would taste like sweat and coffee that spilled over the sides of the mug. Probably black. Danny would mainline caffeine if he could. Yeah, I could see-

“Give me your leg.”

And first on the list of things I thought Danny would never say… I jerk a little, then look at him, wide-eyed. The first thing that comes to mind somehow ends up coming out of my mouth. “It’s kind of attached.”

He snorts, then rolls his eyes. I’d like to think that smirk is fond, but with him you can’t tell. Then he slides, with one eerily fluid motion, out of the chair to kneel between my legs with his hands on my thighs. My breath catches loudly in my throat, making him glance up. “You okay?”

Yeah. Great. Pay no attention to the fucking bulge between my legs. “Uh huh.

“You sure?”

Just get it over with before I manage to embarrass myself, Danny… “Uh huh.”

“Okay…” Shaking his head with that ‘Tim’s a fucking headcase’ look on his face, he reaches into the box and comes up with a packet of peroxide.  Then he catches said packet between white, even teeth and tears it easily open. Which is completely at odds at how carefully he pulls the edges of the tear in my jeans apart, trying not to touch the place where the skin was scraped bloody.

The scrape is mostly in shadow, but he manages to get most of it as he reaches inside and slides the little slip of cotton and antiseptic over my skin, judging from the sudden sting. It doesn’t hurt too much, actually, but my knee jerks anyway, almost connecting with his chin. He pulls away, shooting me a dark look, then almost rubs the alcohol into the cut with firm touches that make me hiss.

“Sorry.” Though he doesn’t sound like it. “There was some dirt ground in there.”

I gibe him a dark look of my own, then tell him pointedly, “Ow.”

“Don’t be a pussy.” Sitting back with a frown, he considers the scrape with a gravity it doesn’t deserve, then grabs both sides of the tear and yank. The sound of cloth ripping sounds oddly loud.

“Hey-“

“They were a loss anyway, Tim.” Bastard doesn’t even bother to glance up. Although I should be glad, because some fucked up part of me apparently enjoyed that. A lot. Or maybe that’s just the red hair against my bare thigh at the moment as he bends over my knee, deep in concentration. He reaches up to probe at the edges with his fingertips, still cool from the peroxide, probably checking for swelling while he’s there. It’s an odd, dull pain, almost an ache, almost enjoyable.

Then his finger slips and moves straight over the broken skin.

I think I make some sort of noise, some sort of startled whimpery noise that sounds strange even to me. Danny jerks his hand back like I burnt him, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

“No. I-It’s okay.” And it is. More than okay, really, because my nerves are just singing with a volume that scares me. Twinge of pleasure-pain at the touch of his flesh, and yeah, isn’t that always the way?

I’m such a fucking freak.

Danny’s giving me this look I can’t read like I’m going to change my mind and chew him out, so I have to sit up from where I ended up slouched in his chair and clear my throat. It takes more effort than I’d like to force my mind back into its ordered little cage where I can put some strength into my voice. “It is. Didn’t hurt.”

“Right. And hence, the whimper.” Danny shakes his head and refuses to look at me, reaching for something in the box. I think he rummages for a few extra seconds to keep his hands busy. Danny, practicing avoidance? No, never. “God. Look, how about I show you the cues so you cam get out of here before I break your leg or something-“

Sometimes, I think my hand doesn’t belong to my body. Because I would never dare to touch Danny when he’s on a tangent. I wouldn’t presume to coax his chin up. And I sure as hell wouldn’t hold it there until his eyes went up and he saw.

Well. Everything.

“Oh.” Those strangely colored eyes widen suddenly in understanding. “Oh…”

And my hand decides to obey me, about ten seconds too late. Pulling away, I scoot back in the chair, whisper of leather on cotton on sweaty skin. It’s too cold to sweat in here. I’d crawl backwards through the chair if I could, because Danny is still kneeling there, still fucking looking at me with this expression that’s going to turn into ‘I’m flattered, but’, I just know it. He’s about the only thing that’s keeping me from bolting. Who says that fear of conflict is something you grow out of?

I hold up my hands in the universal ‘please don’t hit me’ gesture, coincidentally positioned in the perfect place to block it if he decides to punch me in the face. “Look, I can explain. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve got this thing, my nerves apparently get confused and think that pain means ‘yay, sex’, and it’s nothing personal, really should’ve outgrown it by now-“

“Tim-”

“It has nothing to do with the fact that you were the one who touched me, which sounds really bad but sounded a lot less gay before I said it- not to say that I’m gay, or that you’re gay- not that it’d be bad if you were gay, I wouldn’t be upset or anything, because, hey, whatever makes you happy-“

“Tim.” And God help me, he’s getting up to his feet.

“Because, really, you deserve to be happy, and as far as I can tell nobody’s really kept you very happy for a couple of years now, unless you’re just snarly and acidic as a general rule now which is, granted, entirely possible, but I don’t think you can be miserable and happy at the same time, and really, Danny, I do want you to be happy, I’d like to make you happy but I’m not a very happy person most of the time either so who the fuck am I to talk-“ The chair creaks as Danny, apparently fed up, kneels on either side of my thighs and places a hand on both sides of my head, and I have no idea what the hell is coming out of my mouth anymore. “And frankly, I’d be happy if you were gay, in both senses of the word, or maybe just bi which would make more sense with the whole ex-married thing, but that’d be for my own selfish reasons which you’re probably going to hit me for, but I’m kinda sick of being so very courteously in the closet so if you could just hit me and get it over with and I can go back to pretending that I don’t want you, I’d be very-“

A hand clamps over my mouth, and strangely, it’s not to strangle me. Danny looks down at me, his expression too patient for the situation and the words that just spilled out of my mouth. The feeling of his body pressing mine into the chair, warm and nicely heavy against me, makes me want to do very stupid things.

“Tim,” he says again, very quietly. “I want you to do something for me. Breathe.”

So I make with the breathing, afraid to pull my eyes away from his. After a couple of breaths, he moves his hand away and sits back far enough to look at me.

My face feels hot, so I rub at it idly with the back of my hand and try not to look sulky.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with his head ever so slightly tilted like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen in ages. His eyes are warm. I’ve never seen his eyes so warm.

Something deep in me that’s addicted to rejection makes me tell him, “I said, I want you.”

His eyes flare for a second, and my arm jerks in an abortive need to cover my face again. I make myself keep it down because frankly, at this point I’d deserve the bloody nose. But he just looks at me, this strange smile on his face. No sarcasm, no bitterness, not even that omnipresent undercurrent of anger that became worn down into simple cynicism over the years in a process that was just painful to stand by and watch.

Dear God, he’s going to kill me.

“I heard you,” he says simply, then reaches down and grabs the bottom of my shirt. Two buttons get undone, his fingers brushing my stomach just for a second before he pushes the cloth aside to bare the long and bloody scrape where my side had an argument with the rocks and lost. There’s no dirt clumped there through some strange miracle, but the first few layers of skin were worn away. He touches the edges of the wound with a detached curiosity, then tells me matter-of-factly, “You could’ve broken a rib. Or ruptured something.”

For some reason, I’m having trouble taking in a full breath. I feel dizzy. “But I didn’t.”

“But you could’ve. Fuck, Tim, if you really thought the only thing I was worried about was a little dirt in your cuts, you’re an idiot.” Only the shade of fondness in his voice keeps that from being harsh enough to make me flinch. “But then, you never were much for subtleties.”

“What do you-“

He looks up, a barely reined-in wildness in his eyes. “Burton, I have been lusting after you for five years. Five long, supremely frustrating years, without even a shadow of a glimmer of a fraction of a hope that you knew anything existed outside your sketchbook and your head! Do you have any idea-“

Oh… stupid, stupid man. I’d smack him if I didn’t suddenly want to do any number of unmentionable things to him. I have to settle for reaching out to put my finger over his lips and inform him, very politely, “Twenty-one.”

He blinks, distracted mid-tangent. “Twenty-one what?”

“I have twenty-one years. You have five.” The startled look on his face is too tempting not to take advantage of, really, so I tweak his nose for good measure. “I win.”

“You… you actually…” I’m half disappointed when he stops stuttering long enough to do the math. “Twenty-one?”

“I saw Boingo playing in a club the year before I dragged you into composing for me. So, yes, twenty-one. And it seemed to get a little more annoying with every year.”

Which is understating. I have had to stand by through several girlfriends, half of them brainless and hostile and borderline abusive, through months where he never seemed to sleep and was always on the edge of some breakdown, through watching his eyes turn haunted, through having him within reach but never mine to touch. Annoying doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Oh.” Several looks cross his face. If he apologizes, I’m going to hit him. He finally seems to settle, thankfully, on entirely too angelic for anyone’s good. Including and especially mine. “I suppose I owe you, then. For twenty-one years of being annoyed.”

“Uh…” Great. Like my pants didn’t fit tightly enough already. My hand wavers over his back, but I’m not sure there’s anywhere I could touch. Or am I allowed to touch now? Because apparently Danny’s decided that he is, long fingered hands roaming up under my shirt and it should not feel that good to have my stomach stroked. “Um. Danny, you’re touching.”

“Yes. Very good. You’re a bright one.” The sarcasm doesn’t have its usual edge. He seems distracted by the fact that he can unbutton my jeans. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” I say that a little too quickly, making him chuckle and duck his head to nuzzle me unexpectedly. I’ve pictured this countless times, and I never imagined nuzzling. His hair is soft and smells vaguely like almonds and honey. I didn’t think he could be affectionate. I didn’t think his skin would feel warm, or that his cheek would be slightly rough from days of not having time to shave. I dare to turn my head and kiss his throat in passing, and I think he shivers. He’s vulnerable, somehow, I can taste it in the air between us that’s getting hot from our breathing. It seems to muffle sounds, making it strangely intimate when I ask him, “Can I touch you?”

Danny actually seems to shudder, his hands fisting in my shirt for a moment, then manages a tight nod. It takes a second for his answer to sink in, and then I’m using it to my full advantage. His t-shirt is years old, thin and worn and soft under my fingers, but I still want to yank it out of the way when I slide my hands up over his back. And I must be a masochist, because I don’t, torturing myself with touches through the cloth. He’s warm, so warm.

“Danny, Danny, Danny,” I don’t exactly know why I’m sighing-chanting that to myself, maybe just a reminder or a comment on the whole situation, but it gets me nice results because the light stroke of his fingertips over the scrape nearly makes me climb through the chair again.

He tenses, head coming up to see if that was a whimper of agony. I reach up and comb my hands through his hair because it’s too tempting not to, lovely soft hair and I wish he’d grow it out again. I had something in mind to say, I’m sure of it, but all that comes out is, “Oh, God, more of that. Please.”

A blink, then the beginnings of a smirk, and with a liquid sort of movement that no human is supposed to manage, he slides off my lap and on to the floor again. “Shh,” he murmurs suddenly, which makes me realize that some sort of protesting noise was coming out of my mouth, then leans forward and presses his lips gently to my stomach, then licks, and-

Oh. Electricity.

And yes, it hurts, because the skin is just bare and newly half-healed, and all the nerves are apparently up against the surface because it hurts and feels good in a confused sort of way. His mouth is hot and wet and it’s good, it’s right and primal and just… raw.

He brings his head up after a second and an eternity, considering me. It takes a moment for the
static running along my spine to stop long enough for me to realize that I slid down in the chair to get closer to it, leaving my legs open and pretty much everything in easy reach. Danny’s eyes look black; I can’t see the hazel anymore. His grip is almost, almost, hard on my hips.

“Can I?” he asks, his voice rough and his eyes hot on mine. I don’t have to ask what he wants.

“Yes.” It’s needy enough that I don’t have to add the ‘God, please, don’t make me wait that much longer’. It’s implied.

Letting out a long, slow breath, he finally raises his head to offer me a very unnerving grin. Then my pants are around my ankles, thank God for loose jeans, and he’s somehow managed to hook my legs over his shoulders. I didn’t know how much of everything was left open when I slid down, but he apparently did.

Long slow licks from front to back, and his mouth is everywhere somehow, dragging across the head of my cock, sliding down the underside, pressing just inside me. He’s shameless, dragging every dirty trick out of the book and inventing a few along the way, sucking and purring and fucking me with his tongue while I make wordless desperate noises that keep scaling up into too loud even if he doesn’t seem to mind. I let my head fall back, digging my nails into the leather and shuddering. Deeper, so hot, so fucking good, but I need…

“Danny,” it comes out a broken, half-audible gasp, “fingers. Please.”

His low laugh is hot and cold against my skin, about as maddening as he’s being. So I kick him. Just hard enough to bring his head up so I can glare at him properly. He narrows his eyes at me but must not mean it, because a moment later his finger is easing its way into me.

The first few tentative rocking motions, odd because he’s trying so very hard not to hurt me even as he nips his way from my thigh to my cock like he forgot what he was supposed to be doing, leave me gasping. The first shallow thrust makes something suspiciously close to a mewl come out of my mouth. His eyes are hot on my skin, like he’d like to devour me. I have to close mine, the sense of touch blocking out everything else as unimportant. He thrusts and he nips higher and higher, leaving marks, delving deeper.

Then he presses his fingertip, hard, against something inside me that just makes the world go white, and slides my cock into his mouth before I can breathe. The sharp, broken noise is my own voice. I arch up into him, going tense, and let it all take me because there’s not a whole lot else I can do. So I come, long and shuddery and hard.

“Shh, shh.” For some reason, when the world comes back, it’s tilted. I’m on Danny’s lap, for one. And the chair is gone. And the floor is a whole lot closer. I must’ve slid off the chair when I came. Leather plus sweat equals bad. Although maybe not bad, exactly, if it means that I get Danny crooning at me, his hand on the back of my neck, and yes, I do believe that is the bulge in his jeans pressing against the back of my thigh. So much for innocent intentions. Taking a deep breath, I put my face in the curve of his throat and breathe in. He smells good. “You okay, Tim?”

“Mm-hm.” When he breathes in like he’s about to say something, I poke him in the stomach. “Shh. Afterglow.”

Afterglow is a very appropriate term. Because if I close my eyes, I can feel myself glowing. Nice little buzz. I’m enjoying it.

Then Danny shifts, probably trying to get the feeling back into one leg, and my hand slides into his lap. I’m sure as fuck not complaining. His breath goes out on an unintentional gasp when I take it upon myself to curve my hand over the zipper, pressing in, and I have to laugh very softly into his throat.

Then, of course, I pounce.

God bless Danny for wearing loose pants and no shoes in his studio. A few quick tugs and they’re off, shoved under his desk for someone to wonder about. Danny stares at me, half knelt over him where he ended up on his back on the floor.

“Afterglow?” he says finally, something between a catch and a laugh in his voice.

“This is the afterglow.” Leaning down, I kiss his shoulder because it’s in reach. Then, of course, I nudge his legs apart so I can look. And my God, he’s worth looking at. Beautiful cock, dark against his skin. My voice comes out a hungry sort of purr. “Very nice.”

He snorts, folding his hands over his stomach so I can’t see them shaking. “’Nice’? Is that all I get?”

I narrow my eyes at him, then drag my fingertip along the underside. His breath hitches in his throat, giving him away even if the shiny slickness smearing on his stomach- still flat, does the man eat at all?- could be ignored. “Very hard. Is that better?”

“Much.” His eyes follow my fingers when I gather up the slickness, belying the easiness in his tone. “And that’s only because you’re a fucking wet dream on leg-… ah.” There’s a twisted sort of satisfaction in watching his eyes widen. “God.”

“Spread your legs,” I suggest with a mildness that startles even me, then slide down to cover him.

It’s mostly to feel him shudder when I tease at fucking him, smearing circles with his own precum every time he seems to think he’s getting something. I like the frustrated little noises he makes, the way his head tilts back into the carpet. I wonder if he knows he keeps baring throat like that. He arches up, breathing unevenly, then catches his lip between his teeth. He’s fucking gorgeous, and so responsive it’s unnerving. I’ve barely even touched him.

I give him a fingertip and almost shudder myself. He’s hot inside, fever hot, and rocking his hips into the motion. He likes this. I like this. It’s a happy world.

A little deeper, just brushing the prostrate, and oh. God. He’s fucking shameless already, and I’ve barely even done anything. I could make him come like this, and come hard. I could make him…

Yeah. Mine.

A couple more presses against the little bulge under my fingertip have him shifting under me, gasping and damned near clawing. “What… the fuck… are you doing to me?” he manages between ragged sharp pants.

“Using twenty-one years’ worth of planning.”

“Going to kill me.”

“Nah.” That might work better if I didn’t decide to push his shirt up and go for a nipple. I’d been wondering what his skin tasted like. Feeling the muscles just clench around my finger was a happy side benefit. After a moment of feeling it tighten up under my tongue, I look up at him and find his eyes squeezed shut.

The second finger slides in as easily as the first, resting beside it against his prostate. Easy little rubs actually got him to whimper, but the more pressure meant the more noise and the more desperately he moved against me. By the time I find a rhythm I like for pressing and relaxing, watching him shudder and make soft protesting noises he’ll never admit to in turn, he’s as good as gone. Slick shuddery wanton thing, twining his legs with mine and arching, rubbing like a cat in heat, baring his throat, his lips parted on these strange desperate noises.

I can’t help it much. I kiss him. Which is about when he gasps and comes so hard I think I hurt him.

Sliding my fingers free feels like a loss of something vitally important. I put my head on his chest and listen to him breathe, listen to his heartbeat slow. Listen to him murmur, after we’re both cooled off and close to shivering in the frigid cold of the room, “Okay. I’m officially a fucking slut now.”

I consider arguing, then take note of the cum gluing us together and decide to go with oblivious. It’s safer. “Why?”

“Well…” he sighs, shifting into a more comfortable position, which is purely relative seeing that this is the floor, “Look at it this way. I had your pants off two seconds after you said you wanted me.”

I thought for a moment, then sat up to look at him. He has a sleepy, well-fucked look to him. I like that. “You waited five years. I waited two decades. We were supposed to wait until the sixth dates?”

He snorts and studiously avoids my eyes. And I thought I was bad. “Point. I mean, the fuck was I expecting? That I should’ve held out until we were going steady and I took you to the prom?”

I don’t tend to think well after sex. That biological imperative to protect and dote over the mate seems to hit me double-time. So I don’t even take a moment to consider before I look at him and ask seriously, “Danny, would you like to go steady?”

Danny blinks at me.

“Uh… I’m serious.”

His forehead furrows for a moment, whether in confusion or something else. Too many things go flashing across his eyes, every damned one of them too readable.

“Steady, huh?” he says finally.

“Um. Y-yeah.” I offer him a smile that feels teenager-shy. “I don’t have a letter jacket or anything. But, yeah. Steady. If you want.” I squint at him. “Do you want?”

“Steady.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth before he shakes his head and fights it down again. “God, you’re strange.”

Considering the source, I’m not sure whether to be honored or horrified. I go for something in the middle. “Well… yes.”

That makes it scale up into a genuine smile. I like that. “Okay. Steady it is, then. But you’re buying your own damned ticket to the prom, and I am sure as hell not wearing a dress.”

I reach up and touch his cheek, sandpaper rough and pale from no sleep. He looks beautiful. The world looks beautiful. “Okay.”

And miraculously, it is.