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The silence was easier to be inside than the brightness had been.

Ruari couldn’t have said when the bottles disappeared. He’d kept whisky in the kitchen cupboard and two cans of lager in the fridge. At some point he reached for the cupboard door and found it empty. The fridge held Cassian’s food deliveries and nothing else. There were no bottles in the bathroom, none under the bed, none in the coat pockets where he sometimes stashed a quarter-bottle for the nights when the dark arrived faster than he could outrun it.

He didn’t go downstairs to look for more.

His bladder dragged him to the bathroom eventually, and he stood over the toilet with one hand braced against the wall. The cabinet above the sink sat at eye level, its mirrored door slightly ajar, and through the gap he could see the blister pack on the shelf where he’d left it weeks ago.

He popped one tablet out of the foil with his thumb and swallowed it dry, the coating catching in his throat.

He took one the next morning, too.

He rang Hartwell on the third day, or maybe the fourth. The call existed in his memory as a fact rather than an event, something that had happened between one tablet and the next.

Cassian’s key turned in the lock at the usual time. Ruari heard his footsteps, the rustle of a carrier bag, the click of tupperware being set on the counter.

“Morning, alpha.” Cassian’s voice drew closer. “Diwa made sopas. It’s a macaroni soup. His mum’s recipe, from when he was little.”

Ruari pushed himself upright.

His arms shook under his own weight, and the muscles across his shoulders burned as though his body had forgotten what being vertical felt like. He worked his way up the headboard bit by bit, and by the time he was up, his breath was coming hard out his nose.

Cassian stood in the doorway holding a bowl with both hands, steam curling between his fingers.

He came to sit on the edge of the mattress. The dip of it rolled Ruari’s hip towards him, and he held the bowl out.

Ruari took it. The ceramic almost burned his palms. The soup inside was thick with shredded chicken and soft curls of macaroni swimming in a milky broth. He could smell ginger, garlic, something green — cabbage, maybe, or spring onion.

He ate. The spoon felt heavy in his grip, but he brought each mouthful to his lips while Cassian sat beside him with his legs tucked beneath him on the mattress.

“It’s comfort food,” Cassian said. “Filipino comfort food. Diwa’s mum makes it whenever someone in the family is sick, or tired, or just having a rough time, and Diwa learned the recipe from her when he found out Colin was going to have a baby, cos he wanted to be able to make it for Tala. He told me that.” Cassian’s thumb rubbed a slow circle on his own knee. “He also makes arroz caldo, which is a rice porridge with loads of ginger in it, and I like that one too, but he said the sopas was better for today.”

The broth pooled warm in Ruari’s stomach. He scraped the spoon along the bottom of the bowl, chasing the last curl of macaroni round the dregs, and ate that too.

Cassian took the empty bowl from him and set it beside the neat stack of tupperware lids before he leaned back against the pillows.

“Thank you,” Ruari said.

Cassian’s smile widened, and his hand burrowed under the blanket, closed over Ruari’s, and held on.

Chapter Twenty

Ruari was standing at the kitchen sink filling a glass at the tap. It was the first time Cassian had seen him out of his bedroom in weeks. He was thinner than Cassian remembered, but he was vertical and awake.

Cassian crossed the room in three strides and kissed him.

Ruari’s mouth tasted stale and his stubble scraped Cassian’s lips raw, but none of it mattered because Ruari was kissing him back. His hands came up to Cassian’s face, cupping his jaw.

Cassian pressed closer. Ruari’s tongue slid against his and Cassian’s hips jerked forward, grinding into the hard ridge already straining behind Ruari’s joggers.

Ruari broke the kiss, brushed his mouth against Cassian’s temple, and said, “Don’t move,” before he disappeared down the hallway.

Cassian didn’t move. He stood there with his lips tingling, listening to the bathroom cabinet open and shut, and then Ruari returned with a condom already torn from the strip. He rolled it on with one hand while the other found the waistband of Cassian’s joggers and shoved them down past his hips.

Cassian turned without being asked, bracing his forearms on the counter. Behind him, Ruari’s palm pressed flat between his shoulder blades, pushing him down until his chest met the surface, and Cassian arched his back and spread his knees wider.

Two fingers slid into him, checking how wet he was. His slick had been coming in a hot rush that had soaked through his pants since the kiss started, and the fingers withdrew the moment they confirmed Cassian’s readiness.

The blunt press of Ruari’s cock nudged against his rim, and Cassian exhaled, bore down, and took the first thick inch with a hiss that fogged the laminate beneath his mouth.