But as he moved the stacked clothes from the bed to the dresser, he found a brown leather hatbox at the bottom, embossed with a logo that he’d seen on some of Arthur’s clothes. He touched it curiously with one finger.
The door opened again and Arthur came in, also in nothing but a towel cinched tight around his waist. He was shaking his head as he shut and locked the door behind him. “If I never wear another wet, ruined tuxedo it will be too soon—oh. You found it.”
Wow.That was a lot of bare skin and muscles, water droplets still beading on Arthur’s chest and shoulders. Rory took a step toward Arthur, but Arthur was sitting on the bed, gaze on the hatbox.
“That’s for you.” The awkwardness in Arthur’s voice had Rory stopping. “I already had it in my car, from New York.”
Rory furrowed his brow. “Is this—a present?” he said uncertainly. “But you already got me thecaffettiera.”
“Yes, but giving you the means to make coffee benefits me greatly.”
“But that’s good,” said Rory. “Then I’m not mooching off you—”
“You’re nevermooching—”
“You can’t expect other people to give you things, Ace, you gotta work for them—”
“No, darling,” Arthur said softly, and Rory stilled. “You don’t have to earn things from me.”
Rory’s protest stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard. “This is from the place that makes your clothes, right?” When Arthur nodded, Rory bit his lip. “It’d take me ten years to make enough to give you a present like this back.”
“Have I made you think that’s what I want from you?” Arthur said uncertainly. “Because I don’t care about that. I hope by now you know I don’t.”
“But I met your ex. He could probably buy the moon for you and have change left over.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You know, for all your supposed jealousy, you probably saved Wesley’s life today,” he said, making Rory squirm. “There are things that matter so much more than money. I would not think highly of anyone who judged the value of someone’s affections by the price tag they can afford for a gift.”
Rory chewed on his lip.
“I don’t want the life I would have with Wesley,” Arthur said, quiet and sincere. “I am happier here, in this tiny room, with you being a stubborn contrarian, than I was at the wedding of the year. Maybe we move in different worlds, but I feel most like me when I’m with you.” He hesitated. “Does that sound mad?”
Rory’s heart had started pounding. “Nah,tesoro,” he said, lips forming the childhood language he’d missed so much, a part of him he’d lost until some Upper West Side high hat gave him a reason to find it again. “I get it.”
“Good.” Arthur cleared his throat. “And really, Theodore, you sank your magic back into my aura again not an hour ago. Why can’t it be my turn to put something on you?”
Rory huffed, almost a laugh, warmth flooding through him. “All right already,” he said gruffly, like his heart wasn’t light as air. He opened the fine leather hatbox to find a newsboy cap in a beautiful brown houndstooth wool with a silk lining that wouldn’t itch. Casual enough to go with his clothes but by far the nicest thing he’d ever owned. “Aw, Ace, it’s perfect.”
“It is?”
“I love it. I love—this,” he said quickly, biting off the other word he’d almost said. “This cap,” he said instead, because he did love the hat. He took the step toward the bed, fitting himself between Arthur’s knees.
Arthur’s lips quirked up, in that shy smile he only ever had around Rory. “We will not fit on this bed,” he said seriously, “and I could not care less. Come here.”
Rory carefully set the cap and the borrowed glasses onto the nightstand, and a moment later his hands were on Arthur’s face and his lips on Arthur’s. Arthur let himself be toppled down onto his back, let Rory pin him down between his body and the mattress.
Arthur’s skin was still damp, hotter than usual from the shower, and he smelled like the cheap hotel soap, not his usual cologne. The blanket under them was rough, nothing like Arthur’s soft duvet. But his lips met Rory’s as enthusiastically as they had on the velvet settee in his flat, and his arms came around Rory as eagerly as they did on the silky sheets of Arthur’s bed.
Arthur didn’t roll them over, his lips soft under Rory’s, like he was enjoying letting himself be kissed how Rory wanted. Rory broke away to press a kiss to Arthur’s chest, over his heart and the scars there, and Arthur made a needy sound in the back of his throat. But he said, “We don’t have to do anything but sleep. You must be exhausted.”
Rory was. But his body was also buzzing faintly, like he’d drunk too much coffee, like he could almost feel the tiny lightning bolts Gwen had described. It mixed with his desire, and the craving for Arthur, a deep need to reassure himself that he’d gotten Arthur away from Hyde.
“I don’t think I can’t sleep yet,” he admitted. “Think I need you too much.”
He stretched up to Arthur’s lips again, but then Arthur whispered, “I missed your magic when it was gone,” more raw and vulnerable than Rory had thought he could sound.
Rory swallowed back the swell of emotion, and he slid his hand into Arthur’s wet hair. “It missed you too,” he whispered back, and kissed him again, deep enough to push Arthur farther up the bed, into the pillows.
As they kissed, Rory’s legs slipped between Arthur’s, and they both stilled. They stayed together like that for a quiet moment, then Rory whispered, “You ever let a fella...”
