“Tell him to use his tongue.”
“Ugh,no, that is not the kind of thing a polite boy like you says; you’re learning terrible habits from me.” Wesley reached for the light on the nightstand and pulled the chain, sending the room into semi-darkness lit only by the streetlamp outside. “You know, it’s four times now. Four times I’ve seen you where you haven’t had magic. You’re really terribly lucky to have me.”
“So lucky,” Sebastian murmured. “Talk?”
Because he wanted to hear Wesley’s voice. Because when he was ill, he wanted Wesley.
Wesley quickly cleared his throat. “Right. So you already know I only have one thing I can talk about, and that’s myself. I could once again attempt to relay the history of the Viscounts Fine, but...” He wet his lips. The words on his tongue were affectionate, even hopeful—not the kind of thing a cold, cynical bastard like himself said, and he was clearly also learning terrible habits from Sebastian. “Instead of the past, I’m going to tell you about the future. A story about an Englishman on a Caribbean beach, and a Caribbean boy in an English snowfall.”
“Love that.”
Sebastian’s words were thick and slurred with sleepiness now. But he’d definitely saidthat. Certainly notyou. There was no way he could have saidyou;what a flight of fancy that would have been, to imagine that was what Wesley had just heard.
Though it had sounded—no. No, of course it wasn’t.
Wesley let himself settle in as well, let himself drape an arm over Sebastian’s ribs, so he could feel his breaths rise and fall. Reassure himself those breaths were still coming. Then he took a breath of his own. “So first, obviously, you’re going to feel much better, and all of this American nonsense is going to be wrapped up. Then we’ll pick our ship—I know I haven’t sailed frequently, but I have strong opinions about my ships nonetheless...”
Chapter Eighteen
Sebastian woke with a headache, a parched throat, and sweat on his brow. But he was mostly alert and his mind mostly clear, both a significant step up from his night. And even through the physical weakness, there was a lightness to his body that he hadn’t felt in weeks.
Wesley was already awake and dressed, standing by the window with his gaze on the street. The early morning light was gray again, illuminating his profile, the stubble on his sharp jaw, the eyes that matched his suit and the sky.
Wesley’s words from Manhattan came back to him.I might believe in magic now, but life letting me keep you—that’s a fairytale I suppose I haven’t yet believed in.
His fingers curled around the edge of the blanket. Wesley was the one who talked about suddenly stumbling into a world of magic, and it was true in the literal sense. But there was a kind of magic in a person who carried you when you couldn’t walk, who stayed by your side during a dark night and saw you through to the dawn. And maybe Sebastian had been just as much of a skeptic, unable to quite believe life would let him keep someone like that. Keep someone like Wesley.
Sebastian watched him watch the street. He wanted to say something charming about how handsome Wesley was, the kind of compliment that would have him falling right back into bed.
What he actually managed to say was “Hi.”
“Hi indeed.” Wesley turned away from the window and toward Sebastian as he sat up against the pillows, wincing as bruised, stiff muscles protested. “How is the patient this morning?”
Sebastian made a face. “Humbled.”
“Are you now?” Wesley’s lips curved up, like that had surprised a smile out of him. “Don’t tell me you’re about to acknowledge that magic isn’t everything?”
“You were amazing,” Sebastian said, rueful and soft.
The small smile was still on Wesley’s lips. “Generally the kind of thing I like to hear after a fellow has enjoyed himself in my bed, not vomited in a loo.”
Sebastian wet his lips. “I don’t know if I would have made it without—”
“No, stop, it’s too early for sentiment.” Wesley had stepped away from the window, toward the bed. “You’re just very bad at relying on other people.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “But I hope you now unequivocally understand that the next time you think you might have a blood terror, or any other kind of trouble, and you’re wonderingshould I go to Wesley for help, the answer is always yes. Actually, let’s just make the questionshould I go to Wesley, because the answer to that is also always yes.”
This close, Sebastian could appreciate the light brown stubble on Wesley’s jaw, the high cheekbones and the hint of a smile lingering on his lips. The night was a blur, but Wesley was in every memory, helping Sebastian when he couldn’t help himself. Wesley said he didn’t want sentiment, but Sebastian had a lot of it right then.
He leaned forward and kissed Wesley, who made a small noise of surprise, his lips softening under Sebastian’s. The kiss was brief, almost chaste, and then Sebastian was pulling back.
“You wouldn’t let me say it with words,” he said wryly.
“You’re incorrigible,” Wesley told him, but he had a grudging smile. He reached for Sebastian’s hand, rotating it so the inside of his wrist faced him. “The lion is still stuttering.”
A statement, not a question. Wesley had already known, must have already checked on the tattoo that morning. Sebastian looked down at his wrist, and sure enough, the lion in the ink was hidden, visible only for a moment before slipping away again.
Wesley ran his thumb over the tattoo, and Sebastian shivered. “Well, you still feel that at least, that’s promising,” said Wesley.
