And maybe Wesley had his own things to get straight in his head. Like that perhaps he didn’t get everything wrong with Sebastian—perhaps being with him wasn’t about expectations and hidden rules with rights and wrongs at all. Maybe this thing they had was theirs alone, and they could build it together however they wanted.
Wesley let out a quiet breath. “How do you make everything so bloody easy?”
“Wes,” Sebastian said, infinitely sweet. “You’re not hard.”
Wesley tightened his arm, and this was convenient, wasn’t it? Lying like this, where it was so easy to touch Sebastian, to pull him closer?
“I do owe you an apology,” Wesley said softly. “I know you’re not some naïve ingenue who only sees roses because you’ve never known thorns. It’s just, well.” He swallowed. “I might believe in magic now, but life letting me keep you—that’s a fairytale I suppose I haven’t yet believed in.”
Sebastian ran his fingers along Wesley’s arm in a reassuring manner. “It’s because you’re looking at the fairytale the wrong way.”
“Oh, you think I’m looking at this wrong too?”
“Yes I do,” Sebastian said. “Because you are the innocent mortal and I am the devious fae who steals people away to faery realms, yes? So you’re not keeping me.I’mkeepingyou.”
Wesley snorted, his lips turning up in the smallest of smiles. “Is that how this works?”
“Yes, and see, now you can be as cynical as you want. Like,well, of course I was captured by the bloody fae and can’t escape, isn’t that just how life goes?”
A huffed laugh escaped Wesley. “Christ, you cannot do an English accent to save your life. And I think I resent that you knew just how to turn this around on me.”
“I really don’t have my head in the sand about who you are,” Sebastian said. “I’m not a—what is that bird? Emu? No, ostrich. I promise I’m not an ostrich in rose-colored glasses.”
Wesley groaned. “Why did you mix those metaphors? It’s all I can picture now.”
A laugh rolled through Sebastian and Wesley felt the rumble under his arm, against his chest. He let himself reach for Sebastian’s wrist, his palm and fingers loosely encircling the tattoo that let only him see it.
They were quiet for a long moment.
“Although actually, ostriches would be cute in—”
“Stop right there and go to sleep.”
There was another long moment of silence, and then Sebastian spoke again, very quiet. “Wes?”
“Yes?”
His voice was tentative. “I’m a mess who might still get magical nightmares. And you have to sleep with me because I think you’re keeping them away.”
Wesley swallowed thickly. “All right, duck. I can do that.”
He could feel it as Sebastian let out a breath, and settled in against him. Could feel the rise and fall of Sebastian’s chest as he breathed, could run his thumb over the tattoo and feel the answering shiver that ran through Sebastian. His hair smelled like soap under Wesley’s nose, his limbs finally warming where their legs tangled together, the sleek lines of his back and hips and arse tight to Wesley’s body and everything about this was, in fact, absolutely brilliant.
Why the devil had he been letting Sebastian do all the holding? Why hadn’t Wesley known this would satiate his endless craving to touch, that the ceaseless clamor of his addiction and demons would quiet when his arms were full? Why the hell hadn’t Wesley fucked him like this yet, where he could position Sebastian how he wanted, had all the access he desired to see and taste and touch—
Wesley cut the thought off, filing it away for another night. He settled into the pillow, Sebastian tight against him, and let himself fall asleep.
Chapter Thirteen
It was later than they’d planned to rise when they finally stirred. Sebastian got dressed, but Wesley didn’t keep clothes in his trunk—or fit into his clothes—so he disappeared to sneak down to his suite.
Sebastian lingered by the window after Wesley left, tying his tie as he watched Grand Central Station six stories below. The morning was chilly and the glass was cold, but the sky was very blue and the sun bright where it lit the umbrellas of the street carts. The sidewalk was full of people: three Black men in sharp suits walking into the train station; two young Italian boys selling newspapers; a Jewish couple with a young daughter, each holding one of her hands. The window was still cracked open, the city sounds drifting up, puttering engines and the shouts of the vendors. Someone was playing an accordion nearby.
For the first time since he’d stepped off the ship, the city in the present wasn’t competing in his head with the New York of February. He wasn’t seeing echoes of Hyde and Shelley; instead, out the window, Sebastian saw a street he’d crossed yesterday, lugging Mateo’s trunk to the train while Mateo badgered Wesley to buy them pretzels from a man with a big wicker basket.
Sebastian tucked the tie into his waistcoat. The brooch in his waistcoat pocket still tugged at him miserably, but something else had eased. Maybe because he wasn’t bracing himself for the inevitable night when Wesley wasn’t there; Wesley knew Sebastian’s suspicions about the blood terrors and was going to sleep with him to keep them away.
You need to get it in your head that you don’t need to handle everything alone anymore.
