Fire & Ink Read online

  "I'm gonna buy more and keep three in every room." That laser-flecked morning'd been adorable. "It's only one more today, and only a renewal. Shouldn't be a problem. If you have plans."

  "I'll be here in the house." Which might or might not've been a compromise. David couldn't tell. "I had an idea about something. But if you need me I'll stay in the workroom."

  Something. Another sold-off ring or gemstone or trinket, in order to buy books that might please his new witch? A bartered gift from past lovers and an old life?

  Afternoon gold slid along the doorway like hot butter: liquid and potentially scorching if it landed on exposed nerves.

  Colin Rue owed him no explanations. No obligations. No reason David's chest should feel strangely crushed and empty simultaneously. Hollowed out by sunshine and smoky magical cat's-eyes.

  "Do what you need to do," he managed around the hollowness, "I can handle one more client, and I'll be here when you're done. Dinner after? Feel like cooking or going out?" He might've seen a flinch, but he wasn't sure about that either.

  "Staying in. Cooking. With you." Colin let out a breath, shook his head, leaned in and left a kiss on David's lips, hand cupping his face, elegant long fingers over rough short beard-scruff. That gesture sent a drop of pure honey down to David's soul, where it did its best to soothe raw edges. "I'll tell you later. I promise. Also if a package turns up today it's for you."

  "Laser pointers?"

  "Would you like to keep your favorite jeans unclawed?"

  "I've got photographic evidence of you hunting a cricket, you know."

  "Which won't save your jeans."

  "Yeah, about that, have you noticed you're not wearing any?"

  Colin wandered off, after more lingering gilt-edged kisses, to do whatever he'd avoided explaining. David found ink-pots labeled with pain-blocking and flexibility enhancers, and offered Ariana Robinson rose-hip-and-raspberry tea when she arrived. Rail-thin and iron-graceful as the ballerina she'd once been, she carried herself like a queen and swore at her arthritis in impressively colorful backstage terminology. David had learned a few useful expressions.

  He gathered up magic, his own and previously stored infusions in loyal pots. He drew her hands, straight and pain-free. He drew over older sketches, previous workings, not needing to create new structures but rebuilding on foundations. His client exhaled, and though flawless posture did not crack, her expression lightened, grew easier, brimmed with relief.

  He did end up reaching back into the house. Seeking and seeing without eyes that ever-present flowing spring. Summer rocks, browned by heat, and leaping seaspray—froth and foam and playfulness—greeted him. Colin reached out intangibly, obviously focused elsewhere but sparing him more than a thought, and met him halfway with gladness.

  Not a necessity. Not in the sense of the spellwork. Yes, though, in the sense that he needed to know Colin was there, and whatever the problem, it did not exist in anger or regret. Nothing of that evident between them.

  Halfway through the appointment a package did indeed arrive. Their postman also dropped off tiny nutty almond cookies—"from Lucy Chen, down the street, and how's your young boyfriend today?"—and waited patiently while David hunted down a pen with no magical ink and a hotel logo on the side to sign for the delivery. Mrs. Robinson and her unwavering hands poured him tea.

  The package held the most expensive two-volume set of art books from the Etruscan Witches history in mosaics exhibit at the Barnes Museum. They'd visited the month before.

  David, gazing at spines, remembered that day. He'd wanted to buy and read and learn how to draw everything. Colin had soaked up ancient legends and personalities with the delight of someone who loved the craft of a good tale and had spent years pretending to be a reckless brainless fireflower-high plaything. That pretense had blurred into reality for a while, they both knew, but Colin adored compelling narratives and their weavers.

  His vision blurred for a second. Dust in his eyes. Colin must've sold the ruby.

  Ariana Robinson left satisfied as ever, having generously tipped him though he might've refused if given the chance. She touched a nodding scrap of snapdragon in the garden as she passed, as if recalling flowers on a stage, and smiled. David smiled, too, and books caught his eye. He went inside to find Colin.

  Who sat up from the couch—he'd been lying there typing away on his laptop, three months old and a gift from his mother after he'd come back to her—and lit up the room with the motion, the attention. "So you did need me. Do you like them?"

  "I wanted you. And you know I do, thanks, they're gorgeous. Like you."

  "As if I planned that. Me, books, everything gorgeous, for you. Are those cookies? I want one."

  "So impatient," David said, "such a cat, here you go," and tossed the smaller package at him. "Mrs. Chen says thank you. Did you… when did you order these?" How, he meant. How did you pay. What did you sell or promise or give away. And he couldn't ask. Failed to.

  "A week or so ago," Colin decided, around cookie-crumbs. "These are excellent, I'd love her recipe, maybe she'll teach me. Dinner?"

  "You just ate three cookies. She'll teach you, she adores you, if you even mention it next time we see them she'll show you every secret she knows." And you won't show me your secret, he thought.

  No. Not a question to be asked. No intrusions. His kitten had to feel safe. "Dinner, yes. Any ideas?"

  "Early night?" Colin took books out of his hands. Set them down on the coffee-table. "You feel tired. I can take care of cooking if you want. You can sit down and read and admire my skill."

  "No! I mean no, I want to—I like cooking with you." No landing-spots. Tumbling down rocky slopes in black forests. "I admire all your skills." Did that sound like he'd critiqued Colin's past? Bedrooms and sex-magic and power-sharing for wild nights? "Skills at cooking. At dinner. At buying me stuff. Everything." Words. Tricky. Hell. "You're amazing."

  Colin had gotten dressed, for a given value of dressed: grey clinging yoga pants and a slim t-shirt that absolutely hadn't come out of David's closet of plaid and navy and green. The t-shirt was white and had a pink dragon on it. The dragon glittered. It reminded him with sequin eyes that Colin Rue glittered, too, and David Stanton did not.

  "I'm overcome by your eloquence." Colin took his hand, kissed it, batted eyelashes. "Honestly, though, I am. You're absolutely you. You always are." That undefinable emotion from earlier had returned. Tinted words, eyes, expression with an overlay of—wistfulness? Melancholy? Determination?

  None of those fit quite right. He laced their fingers together. "I'm yours. Told you I'd be here. Whenever you want." Whenever you want to come back, he'd said, letting Colin go. Letting go and finding out how widely his heart blossomed at that three-weeks-later return.

  "As long as you want me, then," Colin said, "all the whenever, even if you do take pictures of me befriending a cricket," and squeezed back when David squeezed his hand.

  He led them both into the kitchen, holding that hand, holding on. Got out a wok, chicken, a carrot; regarded them without a real plan. Colin let go to investigate the pantry. His fingers instantly missed closeness.

  The interior of their pantry inquired, "Peanut sauce?"

  "Sounds like a plan." He was a decent cook. Colin was arguably better, but it'd be a hair's breadth argument. David liked the comprehensible stability of recipes and instructions, exact known quantities and understood results. Colin was more creative and more whimsical but tended toward voluptuousness and impatience. Depended on the day, on the mood, which of them was better.

  Good together, though. Balancing out. Meeting in the middle.

  "Cayenne," Colin mused, emerging from the pantry, "and ginger. And brown sugar… I was thinking, earlier."

  "You were?" His voice landed too loud, wobbly as a newborn foal, skittish in the face of upcoming words.

  Colin must've heard the question differently. The emotion behind his eyes changed. "I do think on occasion. Though I can see why you wo
uldn't believe that. Knowing me." The glibness there shot selfward, but David's heart took the bullet and bled.

  "Oh, come on, no." He put down carrot and knife. Offered hands. "That came out wrong. I'm sorry. You read, like, thousand-page novels in an hour and you know how to make every single person in a room smile. You're smarter than I am."

  Colin accepted apologetic cuddles and kisses, leaning into him, and said, "I know you didn't mean it like that, you're too nice for that, witch." He plainly did know, and willingly let the comment go, but the moment of impact had hurt. David knew him well enough to see it, by now, and consequently tried kissing him again, lips vowing tenderness against his eyebrow, his forehead. Colin finished, "And not an hour. Maybe two. No, I was only… I'm wondering what I can start doing."

  "With… the chicken?"

  "I know what to do with our poultry. Maybe it's not important. No. It is. Or I think it is."

  That phrasing no doubt made sense in cat-terms. The words skittered across the kitchen and sunk into David's gut. Arrow-wounded and scared, he tipped their heads together, breathed, "Tell me." Say it, say it. End the world if you're going to end it.

  "I'm living with you," Colin said.

  "Yes…"

  "For three months now. And I feel like—l know it's your house and your life. Not mine. Not the same way. I'm not a witch, and I'll only ever be able to boost you, I can't be trained like an apprentice." Colin's voice did not shake. He must've been thinking these thoughts for some time, growing used to this view of himself. His eyes spoke, though. Pools of unhappiness. Solemn and grey and clear with pain. "I'm living here because you want me here. Not because I'm contributing anything."

  "You are," David plunged in, babbling, "you are, you so are." Clumsy with words, clumsy with emotion. Not spontaneous, not articulate or charming or witty. "You, um, you care about our clients and you help mix my ink. You lend me power when I need it. If I didn't have you I'd have to hire an assistant. We can make it official if you want. I can start paying you if you want."

  Colin wanted to move out. Wanted to leave him. Wanted more. His heart pounded; he did not know why, because it should've known, because this was inevitable, of course it was, David Stanton would not be enough for Colin Rue, who was made of magic.

  "I don't need you to pay me." Colin lifted a shoulder, let it drop: resignation in a shrug. "I don't even pay for food or—or bills? Like water? Electricity? The internet? I've never handled any of that. I have a credit card; is it like that? What do household bills look like?"

  "I pay them online." Automatic response. But Colin flinched: more he'd not known. David soundlessly kicked himself. Repeatedly, with iron boots. "You don't have to worry about that stuff. Please."

  Not right either. Colin bit a lip, retreated without moving. David's hands rested on his shoulders. Might've been miles away.

  He pleaded, "I can show you our electric bill if you want, that's not exactly awesome foreplay but I'll show you anything if you ask for it. You want to see my tax returns, too, they're kind of sexy?"

  And Colin laughed, brief but wry and fond of him. "Sexy?"

  "I can dress up as an accountant?"

  Success. The laugh grew larger. Entertained as rainbows watching humanity. "So you could come and audit me? You'd have to make a visit to the house. I think my current situation demands in-person attention."

  "Hands-on. Close inspection. Want to put the chicken away and have a meeting in our bedroom?"

  "Such intimate service." Colin widened eyes at him, and popped dinner components back into the fridge, where they cheered their chefs on. "Something you provide for all your clients? Or am I special?"

  "You are." Spoken with everything he was: underscored by the spice rack on the counter and the ridiculousness of the moment. "Come to bed and I can, um, assist you with preparations? I can wear glasses if you want." He didn't own or need any, but he could sketch some clear lenses into existence. Happy to. Thrilled to.

  "Oh," Colin purred, "no need for glasses, but bring your… pen, and its ink," and darted off down the hall: a ribbon of person and sleek tabby-fur, a flutter of in-and-out transformation solely for the tingling awareness that'd follow, naked skin inundated with sensation.

  David caught up and tossed him into sheet-hills and pillow-piles. Lost his own clothing along the way, shed in hasty scattered heaps; trailed fingertips along slim thighs and hip-bones, leaving lines of heat, making his kitten gasp and shiver.

  He had indeed brought a pen. Colin's eyes danced. Amusement vanished abruptly. "That—oh—oh fuck, David—"

  David kissed his stomach and drew another liquid spiral along his hip, a half-moon, a love-knot, delicate wild runes of fierceness and potency. Colin whimpered, squirmed, tumbled into ecstasy under him. Between them gleaming cords of power tightened, hummed, reverberated.

  Ink on Colin's skin. Tattoos on his own: the glimmering gemstone colors of wards, charms, witch-marks. Two magpies fluttered along his bicep as he drew. The oak across his back spread branches out to shelter the world. In the bed with rumpled navy-blue sheets and sundown light, David Stanton left his own marks across Colin Rue, and left his heart with them.

  In every pen-stroke. Every kiss. Every fingertip venturing into everyplace.

  He would not bind Colin to him. He'd never, never do that. The kisses were pledges and reassurances, contrition and protection and devotion. Safe harbor. Passion bright as stars. Promises that whatever they needed, whatever Colin needed to be happy, they'd work on it. Hope, together.

  He wrote one or two perfectly human numbers alongside flowers and runes and feathers. Mathematics, silly and simple, one plus one equals two, two plus the infinity symbol equals love. Colin, panting, tipped his head that direction. "I don't think that one's scientifically accurate…"

  "I'm the accountant," David said, between other uses for his mouth, "and you're being, um, inspected, so, um, I should know, so let me work," and Colin dissolved into merriment and utter bliss at the next carefully-chosen feathery sensation. Excellent.

  Colin wanted to be inspected more closely. David dropped the pen and obliged, atop him, sliding into him, getting long legs up over his shoulders. Colin cried out in pleasure, eyes wide and dark and joyful. David moved inside him and made love to him and loved him, and gave him everything, sparks of electricity and heat and cold and lightning, his body and endless caresses and the need to hold it all out and spend himself freely if it'd make the man he loved smile even one more time.

  He'd do anything, surrender anything, offer up anything. For one more tremulous gasp, for one moan of his name, for those hands reaching for him in turn.

  For the way Colin gazed up at him at the peak, lips parted and silent though he'd been begging seconds before, eyes huge and wondering and almost innocent: poised on the precipice of a newfound land without road-maps or sign-posts.

  David knew that feeling. Sketched across his heart, too. No less lovely for that: discoveries to be shared.

  They came simultaneously, unplanned but swept away by irresistible tides. A movement, an arch, a broken name. Exquisite glory flooded the channel between them, and he didn't know which of them'd pushed it which way, and it didn't matter as they fell into radiant oceans.

  They held each other, sharing kisses, touches, reverent elated anchors, in the wake.

  David managed to move first, and rolled them over so he could gather his kitten into arms. Colin yawned, snuggled in, yelped, and threw a pen at him. It hit his hip and bounced, smirking.

  "Now you're on the floor," Colin said to it, "and I'm not, so I win, and you can just stay there."

  "I'm going to need that tomorrow."

  "I'll find it for you. Tomorrow."

  "Cats and sticking paws under furniture…"

  "Come here and I'll stick paws someplace." Colin yawned again, draped along his side, toes idly rubbing David's ankle. David's ankle loved this. "What did you draw on me this time?"

  "Little things. Mostly—"

&n
bsp; "Little? This isn't little."

  "You asked what I drew, not what I—never mind. Keep playing with that. Um, mostly minor charms. Defense. Safe homecoming. Desire. Increased… pleasure…"

  "Pleasure?"

  "Yeah. Thought it might be fun. Not sure it matters with us, though. You amplify it all anyway, like a… a sort of magical…"

  "Amplifier?"

  "Thanks for that." He poked Colin in the ribs. Right over a tiny inky hawthorn wand. "You know what I mean. I'm not sure I noticed a difference."

  "I might've." Colin nuzzled his shoulder, talking. "Right when you did it. But I'm not sure either. You were doing a lot and I love feeling your magic on me and I lost track. We'll have to experiment again."

  Love. Colin'd said love. About his magic, not himself, but even so, David lay on his back, arms around his kitten, grinning foolishly at his ceiling. Had to mean something. A starting-point. A good omen.

  He beamed, "Give me ten minutes and we can totally—wait, did you ever eat your sandwich? You didn't, did you?"

  "I—"

  One quick magical gesture. Pastrami landing on his own chest. Inches from Colin's face. In retrospect he likely shouldn't've startled his kitten, who twitched and kicked him in the shin and made a noise suspiciously like a hiss at the hapless half-sandwich in its container.

  David choked on laughter, spluttered, "Sorry, sorry—" and earned an under-the-breath grumble about witches who did not deserve to share the last two onion rings.

  "They're for you, you know. I don't need any."

  "You even heated them up." Colin had an onion ring in his fingers. "You didn't have to."

  "It's fine." He waved a hand airily, still shaking with repressed laughter. He knew he wasn't that powerful. He'd attempt much more than simple summoning for Colin Rue.

  He'd sworn that. To himself, over and over again, most recently a moment ago amid climactic splendor. "You didn't even feel that, did you? I can do things without you." Without relying on you. Without drawing on your power. I can be good enough for you.