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Will isn’t sure how long he’s been running. His boots are worn thin, his clothes bloodied and tattered, his bones aching. As the sun slopes behind distant hills, painting the sky shades of saffron and vermillion, Will runs, and runs, and runs. He can no longer hear the baying of hounds or the battering of hooves against the hard earth, but he pushes ever onwards.
His mother is dead, and though his hand is no longer bleeding through the cloth he haphazardly wrapped around the wound, he can still feel its pulse: the pulse of terror and betrayal. It lives in his body now, along with the sensation of choking. Bruises.
Run. Promise. Run.
It’s been two days, and though he’s certain he’s still being followed—his internal compass is leading him both further from and closer to danger—he can afford a night of rest.
He needs rest.
The barn in the distance could be the perfect place to hide. He won’t get his hopes up, but there could be empty stalls, haystacks, or other accoutrements to hide behind, between, or above. Plenty of small spaces to squeeze into, and perhaps even a rickety attic to lie down in for a time. The barn is attached to a small farmstead amongst a series of nearby farms, likely tenants renting their land from a benevolent aristocrat.
It’s exactly what Will needs. It would take his pursuers ages to thoroughly search each of the farms and farmhouses. He wouldn’t put it past them, of course, but he’ll indulge in this small advantage for as long as he can—hopefully long enough to sleep.
Exhaustion pulls at him with alluring insistence. He can feel it coaxing him to let his guard down, but he can’t, not yet.
Deciding which farmhouse to hide in doesn’t take much effort: he selects the one furthest from the main road, the one that borders the forest. The barn is older than some of the surrounding buildings, and in worse repair, and it’s surely the perfect hiding place. If all goes well, his only company for the next few hours will be bovine and vermin.
As twilight fades, he moves.
The oil lantern out front should give him pause, but it doesn’t. He glides noiselessly from shadow to shadow, his only objective to find a place to hide—to hide and to sleep. It looks like this particular barn does feature a hayloft, and Will can’t believe his luck.
He watches and listens for several minutes. Night birds and insects begin their own vibrant symphony, and Will waits. There aren’t any voices or signs of movement, and though his pulse is loud in his ears, he silently moves to the front—and only—large doors of the barn. They slide open just enough for Will, tall and lithe, to squeeze through. He shuts them behind him as quietly as possible, listens for movement outside, and hears nothing but insects chirping and frogs croaking.
There’s another oil lantern casting light from the centre. The two horses nicker softly, but the other animals blessedly make no noise.
The second lantern makes him wary, but even beyond that evidence, he can sense another presence. Will isn’t sure how he knows, but some deep internal sense is certain there’s another person here. They must have hidden somewhere, and though Will should be frightened, he’s not. It’s odd, but he assumes he’s too tired to be afraid anymore.
He stumbles towards the lantern and collapses. He’s had little to eat and no sleep for two days; he couldn’t fend off an attacker even if he tried. There’s no use pretending.
Will raises his hands, showing himself weak and defenceless. Injured. Exhausted. Hungry.
“I won’t hurt you,” he mutters. He clears his throat. “I’m not sure I could if I tried.”
The other person doesn’t respond. Will wouldn’t have either, if it were him and someone invaded his home.
“I just need to rest,” says Will.
Maybe he’s speaking to a ghost, or some other type of ethereal creature, or some dark fragment of his blood-stained imagination. His weary, terrified mind has surely conjured something to fear out of nothing. There’s no one else but himself. He’s safe here.
As he curls up near the lantern and sleep finally ensnares him, his last thought, his last true feeling, is this: I’m safe.
» » »
When he wakes, Will discovers that he is not, in fact, safe.
Or alone.
It’s the dead of night, all the animals are sleeping, and there’s someone sitting on the other side of the lantern, a kitchen knife wielded in one hand. Will blinks several times, sits up slowly, and lets the images unfold until his mind can make meaning of them.
It’s a boy roughly his age, maybe seventeen or eighteen. A farmhand in a dirty cap. And yet—
“Make any sudden movements, and you will regret it,” says the boy, his voice calm and self-assured. It’s the posh accent of an aristocrat, not a peasant. It’s too graceful, too confident.
Will looks at him, his own eyelashes fluttering, and feels every fibre of his body buckle and bend. A sensation unlike any he has ever felt coalesces in his chest with immense pressure. It’s painful. He can’t breathe.
The boy across from him isn’t just a farmhand; he can’t be. Beneath the filthy cap is a face of unfathomable beauty—a youthful, masculine beauty so total and incomprehensible that everything around them fades. Will would believe he’s dreaming, except that his life before now has felt like the dream, and this moment is what’s real.
This boy, whoever he is, is the only true thing. He is so very real it hurts.
“Who are you?” Will mutters, breathless.
It’s some small consolation that the boy is also gazing at Will as though rapt, as though nothing else exists. After a moment, he seems to decide this mutual feeling is dangerous: his eyes narrow, his posture goes tense, and his grip on the knife tightens.
“Are you with them?” the boy demands.
“With who?”
“You know who,” the boy hisses, his mouth twisting with anger. “You’re of the Old World. Are you a Novitiate? Or a new Steward? You’re not dressed like one.” Then, more to himself, he says, under his breath, “I would remember you.”
Will is too tired to comprehend these words or their meaning, and he raises his hands, happy to accept defeat, to surrender to whoever this young man is. He’s so ethereally beautiful, Will can hardly form words.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” says Will. This makes the boy frown deeper, and Will sighs, hands still raised. “I’m not from abroad, if that’s what you mean. I’m from England.”
His eyes dart to Will’s bloodied hand, and then back to his face. After a few tense moments, he must decide Will is being honest, or that he’s not a threat, for he sets the blade down, rolls his shoulders, and relaxes.
“What’s your name?” asks the boy.
“If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?” There’s a sense of potency around this boy, something intensely alive and thrumming, and Will can’t help but gravitate towards it. “My name is Will.”
“Will,” says the boy, as though stepping carefully around shattered glass. “My name is James.”
“James,” says Will, and the pressure in his chest tightens. “James.”
His eyes still tacked to Will, James pulls his cap off, revealing a crown of stunning golden hair mottled with dirt and grime. Without the cap, the portrait is almost complete, and that internal compass of Will’s spins wildly before stopping and pointing at this boy, pointing at this inevitable True North. Will isn’t sure he’s ever been truly alive until now.
“Do you have a partner? A friend nearby?” asks James, running a hand through his hair. Though he looks more relaxed now, Will can feel the tension in him, simmering beneath the surface. The ease is a feint.
Will has never had a friend, not really, and he’s definitely never had a partner or anything of that nature. “No.” James doesn’t respond, and Will can sense he still doesn’t believe him. “I don’t have anyone. I just needed a place to sleep. A place to hide. There are violent people after me, and I haven’t slept in two days. That’s all, I promise.”
“You just slept.”
“For how long?”
“A little over two hours.”
“I’d like a little more than that, but I’ll leave if you want. I’ll find another barn to hide in.”
“People after you?” James says, as if this information is inconsequential. “Why?”
Will sighs, closes his eyes tight, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I wish I knew.”
James studies him, the bright afternoon-blue of his eyes more intense than anything Will has ever seen. They glow as if the power of daylight were reduced to that exact shade of blue.
“You swear you’re not here for me?” James asks, his voice low and urgent.
Will shakes his head, desperate for James to believe him. “Am I supposed to know who you are?”
James laughs, and it’s a bitter sound. “No, I suppose not,” he says, looking darkly amused. “Come on, I’ll show you the hayloft. You can rest there for tonight.”
“You swear you’re not going to turn me into them?” asks Will, remaining seated even as James stands and takes the lantern in hand.
James considers him. “Depends. How much are you worth?” At Will’s horrified expression, James smiles grimly. “Let me guess, it’s Simon’s men after you?” he asks, and Will gags, tasting bile. A vision of blood-soaked floors, of his mother’s last expression. James’ face takes on a look of sympathy mixed with amusement. “Turning you in would mean turning myself in, and I have no interest in that. Come.”
» » »
It’s not the best sleep. It’s filled with night terrors of a vast darkness and a guttering of all light, of ancient soldiers of pure shadow. But it’s a night of rest nonetheless: otherwise uninterrupted, safe and sound.
Will wakes in his makeshift bedroll to the scent of hay and manure, and he hears someone climbing up to the hayloft. Without seeing him, he knows it’s James. There’s a different quality to the air when James is near; he’s certain he could know James with his eyes closed.
“James?” he whispers.
“It’s me,” he says, stepping into view. He’s wearing different clothes and sturdier boots, and he’s just as glorious as last night, if not more. It’s as if everything else around him were dimmed. His new cap is made of a grey-brown twill, and it’s cleaner than the previous one. It conceals most of his stunning golden hair, aside from a few rogue strands.
You, something deep in Will chants. You, you, you.
James has a full-to-the-brim travel bag over his shoulder. Before James can open it, Will smells the bread, and his stomach gurgles loudly, painfully. James sets out half a loaf of sourdough, a few apples, a cloth-wrapped bundle of hard cheeses and cured meats, and some large carrots. The bag still looks very full.
“Did you sleep alright?” asks James, handing the loaf to Will. “It’s safe, I promise. I just ate the other half.”
“Thank you. Where did you get all this?”
“The old couple who owns the farm lets me stay if I tend to the animals.”
“Ah.” That explains the kitchen knife. Maybe.
“I’ll let you eat, but I have more questions for you,” says James as he sits back, his posture relaxed and boyish, not a feint this time. “And then I want to show you something.”
Will chews and swallows the bread before saying, “Show me what?”
“Eat first,” says James, his smile more like a smirk. “I have water, too, and clean clothes, though perhaps that can wait.”
Halfway through his fourth bite of bread, the realisation hits him like a physical blow.
“You’re going to run with me?”
James doesn’t smile, but there’s a crinkle of amusement around his eyes, as if he appreciates how Will’s mind works, at least when it’s properly fed and rested. “That depends on how you respond to my questions.”
“Oh,” says Will, deflating. “I’m not sure I know anything useful.”
“Let me decide,” says James.
He lets Will eat, and he tells him about the area, and about how he’s been here for almost a month. Not long in the grand scheme of things, but long enough.
“Why leave, if you’re so well hidden? Why risk it?”
“There is something worth the risk. Something that must be returned to me, and only me. I don’t know if you’re a man of your word, but I will ask regardless—if we find what I seek, will you promise to let me have it?”
“It belongs to you?” asks Will.
“Yes,” says James, tension in his voice. “Inextricably.”
“Then—yes, of course. It’s yours,” says Will, using his most serious tone. James relaxes, but only a fraction. “May I ask you a question?”
“Is your promise contingent on my response?”
“No, it’s separate.”
James nods. “Go on, then.”
“Could you explain to me what you were talking about last night? Who you thought I was?”
“Keep eating,” says James, nodding at the food. “You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in weeks.”
Will does as he’s told, eating while James watches him. It’s hard to tell by looks alone, as most of James’ body is concealed in clothes, but Will wonders if he recently bathed. Unlike Will and unlike the building around them, James smells of flour and oats, and of rosemary and cedar. What few locks of hair Will can see are spotless, too. There’s also a faint hint of colour across his nose and cheekbones, like white-pink rose petals glazed in morning sunlight. He looks like he belongs on a throne, not in a barn.
It’s incredibly difficult not to look at James, not to get lost in looking at him. Will forces himself to look at the carrot he’s eating.
“I need to bathe,” he says eventually.
“There’s a river nearby,” says James. “I’m not sure how well my clothes will fit you, but it will be better than what you’re wearing, even if it’s a little snug. You are taller than me.”
“Not by much.”
James says nothing, and he lets Will eat until he announces himself satisfied, his belly full.
Then, without a word, something about James intensifies—his gaze focuses on the one apple Will didn’t eat. Will watches, wary and confused, and before he can speak, the apple lifts into midair, hovers, and splits in two with a satisfying crunch. Will’s pulse thrashes in his throat.
This—this can’t be real.
Will moves to his knees without thinking, and he waves a hand above the apple. Half of it floats to James, who plucks it out of the air and takes a bite, and the other half floats towards Will.
“I told you, I’m full,” says Will.
“I don’t think you are,” says James, his eyes blazing. “I’m going to touch you now.”
It’s the only warning Will receives before there’s a phantom feeling, like an invisible hand touching his shoulder. The hand glides over his shoulder, up his neck, and then to his jaw, where it pauses. There’s a sensation of a thumb pressing against his lips, though James isn’t moving at all, and Will gasps as the hand coaxes his lips to part. He feels aglow, as if surrounded by fire, and when the second half of the apple touches his lips, Will closes his eyes and takes a bite.
They eat the apple this way: James eating with his own hand, and Will eating with James somehow feeding him from a distance. When some juice dribbles down Will’s chin, there’s another spectral hand wiping it away. Will trembles and almost whines, his body unbearably alive, his nerves frayed, his mind stretched thin, his blood boiling.
“James,” he says, unsure if he’s begging or praying, asking or commanding. “James.”
When the apple is finished, and the tangible sense of James’ magic fades, they stare at each other, breathing hard.
“Who are you?” James asks, a muscle in his jaw sliding. “Who…”
“What was that?”
“My magic,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You—I felt yours, too. I didn’t know there were other reborns. Other—reincarnations. Are you a General, too? I thought I was the only one.” The words spill from James in a breathless rush, and Will shakes his head.
“I can’t do anything like that. I wish I could,” he says, ruefully. No one would have ever touched his mother if he could do things like that.
“Yes, you do. I can feel it. The moment my magic touched you, I felt it.”
It’s impossible; he can’t believe such nonsense. And yet James looks so earnest, and Will just felt and saw such magic with his own eyes.
“Really?”
“Yes,” says James, sitting up straighter. “I can help you. Teach you. My magic was—when it started, I couldn’t control it. It took a lot of patience. But you’ve never…”
Will shakes his head. “If I hadn’t just seen it, I’d say magic doesn’t exist.”
“You really don’t know anything about the Old World? The Stewards? Who I am?”
Will shakes his head, which seems to be enough for James. His smile is slow, but when it finally settles across his face, it transforms him entirely. Ethereal is close, but even that word doesn’t do him justice.
“Can you understand me?” James asks, his mouth forming non-English syllables. “How old are you?”
“I’m seventeen,” he says, speaking in English.
James stares at Will as if he’s never seen anything more vital to him in his entire life.
“You are of the Old World. You have to be. You have to be reborn, or—or something. You know this language innately, don’t you?”
“What language is it?”
James smiles, looking thrilled, and shakes his head. “Let’s get you to the river first. It’s not far. There will be time to explain everything soon.”
» » »
The river is more like a creek, but it’s beautiful and clear all the same. They find a spot shaded by trees and blocked off by underbrush, and James pulls a set of clothes from the bag. The clothes seem old but well-made, and perhaps only a fraction too small for Will’s taller frame. James has a young man’s lean musculature, as if he isn’t finished growing into his adult body, but there’s an easy grace to his movements.
Will wonders if James was—is—a prince of some kind.
And because Will doesn’t know better, he asks. James only laughs and says, “Not quite.”
James retrieves a book from his bag and settles against the trunk of a tree. He faces the forest rather than the river, and then he dismissively flicks his wrist at Will.
“Go on. I won’t watch.”
Will takes the clothes and the one small washing cloth and walks to the river, his gaze darting around nervously. He’s never bathed in a river before, and undressing in the middle of open land is strange and terrifying. But James is acting like it’s normal, and there’s a well-worn footpath that suggests James has been here before, perhaps multiple times. Perhaps many others, too.
Gathering his courage, Will quickly undresses and steps into the creek. He imagined it would be frigid, but the temperature is mild—still chilly, but pleasantly so. Once he feels properly clean, he pats himself dry with his old undershirt and pulls on the new clothes, which do fit him well.
Sunlight dapples the riverbank, and as he walks back to James’ tree, he wonders what his—their?—next steps will be. Will they pursue Simon? Will they flee England altogether? And what item is it, exactly, that belongs to James and has been taken from him?
James sees him returning and stands, his pale skin flushing, the colour hitting him all at once. His eyes slide over Will’s damp body appreciatively, and Will doesn’t know what to do with that information. But then his gaze snags on Will’s neck and his hand, and James steps forward.
“Your hand.” When James reaches for him, Will flinches. “I’m sorry. I just want to look. May I?”
Will takes a deep breath and offers his hand, wishing he had the forethought to rewrap his neck in a cravat or rewrap his hand with more cloth. But he didn’t, and now James knows that Will was the target of violence, even if he doesn’t know exactly how or why.
“You don’t heal?” asks James. Though his voice is soft, his grip is firm. “That’s a deep wound.”
“It’ll heal eventually,” says Will. “Why is that so surprising? They tried to kill me.”
James gives Will a confused look, turns up the left sleeve of his jacket and undershirt, and finds a nearby jagged twig. Before Will can anticipate what he’s doing or say anything to stop him, James drags the twig across his forearm with surprising force, and a small laceration appears, red and irritated. There’s a trickle of blood, and James offers it for inspection.
“I don’t understand,” says Will, watching James with morbid confusion.
“Watch.”
So he does. After a few moments, the wound begins to knit itself back together. James wipes the residual blood away with a handkerchief, and Will stares at him, yet again mesmerised and terrified.
“I can’t do that,” says Will.
James smiles, but it’s a bitter thing. “I suppose I am special after all.”
» » »
Back in the hayloft, James brings more food and two books, and he explains what he meant by the ‘Old World’. He elaborates on who Simon is and what he wants, who he’s working to revive. James also explains what he knows of himself. His voice remains steady and calm through it all, though when he talks about himself, tension sets in his shoulders, and his expression is closed off.
Will feels winded, like he’s been kicked hard in the chest. The bruises around his neck ache anytime he moves. The gash in his hand stings. He recalls the promise he made to his mother, and his insides feel gutted.
It’s easier, so much easier, to focus on James.
“Why did you leave?” asks Will.
“You mean—how did I escape? It’s a long story.”
“Alright. And who do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. Sinclair and Simon purposefully didn’t tell me everything. But Simon wants you, and you absolutely have magic, which means—you must have been someone important, or you are descended from someone important. Either blood of the Dark King, or blood of the Lady.”
“There aren’t any other options?” Will asks, and James laughs.
“There are, but your magic—it doesn’t feel like theirs. It feels—unique. I can’t describe it. Here,” says James, twisting, selecting a book, and handing it to Will. “Start with this. I’ve got chores to do, and then I’ll return.”
“I could help you,” says Will.
“That’s alright,” says James. “Rest. It won’t take long.”
In truth, it takes James most of the day. Will reads and dozes, occasionally eating from the food James brought. And whenever he worries because James hasn’t returned, all he has to do is listen for sounds of movement in the barn below, or look outside to see James in the field. Will falls asleep again after reassuring himself that James is still nearby, and then wakes to the sound of James returning to the hayloft at sunset looking sweaty, sun-flushed, and satisfied.
“Did you manage a little more rest?” James asks, sitting next to him. Will nods and yawns, stretching his arms overhead. James reaches for Will’s hair but hesitates, so Will bumps into his hand like a cat arching for attention. The contact makes James smile, and he cards through Will’s raven-black hair. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” he says, enjoying the sensation of James’ fingers in his hair. “Much better.”
James shifts closer, and their eyes meet. “Better how?”
“Better with you,” Will says, and the air between them charges. Will glances helplessly at James’ mouth. “James,” he says, and colour blossoms in James’ face. “James, did we know each other? In the Old World, I mean? Do you think we—”
“You feel it too?” James whispers, looking muddled and thrilled and enamoured all at once. “There’s so much we don’t know. I don’t remember everything, and I never thought I’d meet someone like me.”
“I don’t think there is anyone like you,” says Will.
The words snap something fragile between them, and James pulls his face closer, drawing him in for a kiss. James brushes his lips against Will’s, featherlight, and it’s an epiphany. Like the moment he first saw James, his entire being buckles and bends, arching towards him. He grabs for James’ waist and tugs him closer, and the next time their mouths meet, there’s more pressure and more prolonged contact. James’ lips are soft and warm, and his fingers curl into Will’s hair and grasp, move, and grasp again.
Will needs this, he realises; he needs this more than he’s ever needed anything. He was starved til now.
“Will,” says James, breathless, speaking against his lips. “Will—”
“It might kill me if you don’t kiss me again,” says Will in a rush. “You wouldn’t want to be responsible for that, now, would you?”
James shakes his head, smiling. He nudges their noses together, and just as their lips are about to meet, James pulls back by a hair, drawing torturously sweet lines of anticipation through Will’s entire body.
“James,” he says, outright pleading now. “James, please.”
“I’ve only had the one lover,” says James, withdrawing further. Colour floods his cheeks again.
“I’ve never had any,” says Will.
“I meant—in my past life. The Dark King. That’s what everyone says. But perhaps,” he says, his thumb brushing reverently over Will’s lips, “I had another. I can’t fathom my jealous master allowing it, but perhaps it was before I took my vows. Unless…”
James frowns suddenly, blinking hard, and Will can’t stand it. He can’t stand having James so close, so pliant and warm in his arms, only to have him pull away. He can’t stand having this fragile heartbeat of a kiss without experiencing every facet of it. James’ grip on Will tightens. An invisible hand touches Will’s sternum and drags down the front of Will’s body, making his back arch as a groan tears from his chest.
“Sarcean?”
The name, ancient as time itself and darker than shadow, punches the breath out of him, and it’s another epiphany—it’s painfully familiar, especially on these lips, in this voice, from this person. His most loyal General, his everything.
Will isn’t sure what plays across his face, but James scrambles backwards as if burned.
“No. It can’t be,” James mutters, shaking his head, his angelic features contorting with emotion, fear amongst them. “He hasn’t been revived. They haven’t completed the rituals!”
“James, please. I don’t know—”
“You’re Him,” says James, clutching at his arms, folding in on himself. “But it’s—how could it possibly—”
Will backs away on all fours too, his bruises throbbing. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Admit it, then. Admit it’s you—that you’re Him.”
“I don’t know what I am,” says Will, raising his voice before remembering that he’s supposed to be hiding. “I don’t know anything. Until today, until you, no one’s ever told me anything about it—about any of this. I’m just—God, I’m just me.”
James shuts his eyes, pulls his knees to his chest, and puts his forehead to his kneecaps. They stay like that for several tense moments: Will hoping he’s not torn to shreds by strange magic, and James processing.
He doesn’t know how long they sit in silence, but Will closes his eyes and waits. James won’t be the first person to try to kill him. He probably won’t be the last, either. And, Will rationalises, if he must eventually die at someone’s hands, it might as well be James. Maybe he can make it not hurt, when he does it. Maybe he can make it feel good.
“It makes sense, actually,” says James at last. He looks up, his chin resting on his tucked knees. Will inhales, and he squashes the sudden flash of hope. “Strangely, it all makes sense. But you’re… you’re not what I was expecting. You don’t remember anything?”
“I… get flashes, sometimes. Feelings. Dreams. I thought everyone had weird dreams. Dark dreams,” Will mutters, also curled into himself. “If you’re going to kill me,” he says, that pressure in his chest so tight he could cry, or explode. “Just do it. Please.”
James laughs, and the sound startles them both. “I’m not going to kill you,” he says, regarding Will with a strange expression—as if he hadn’t decided until this moment, but now, he can’t fathom proceeding any other way. “God, if he was like this, if he was anything at all like you, I can… I can almost sympathise with my past self. I can almost forgive myself.”
Confused and in pain, Will drapes his arms over his face. “I don’t want any of this. I just want my mother back, and even she hated me.”
The words are the breaking of a dam: tears fill his eyes, stinging and burning, and sobs tear at his chest. He feels James approach, and he offers his own hand, hoping James will take it as permission to touch him. It’s the closest he can get to asking for comfort.
“Oh, darling,” says James, who cards through his hair again, his free hand holding Will’s. “You’re going to be alright. You have me now.” He says it with such simplicity, such confidence. “See? Look at me,” says James, prying Will’s hands away from his face and wiping his cheeks. “Look at me,” he says again, more insistent. When their gazes meet, James smiles, and it’s heart-shatteringly lovely. “There you are. I found you, just like I promised.”
Will sobs again, and James holds him.
They hold each other for a long time. Later, when Will feels settled, and very nearly asleep, he touches James’ face and kisses his cheek.
James looks at him, opening groggy eyes, and they both smile.
“Hello, darling.”
“What do we do now?” asks Will as he touches James’ gold hair, softer than kitten fur.
“Mmm. I still need to find the Collar. After that, we can go anywhere we would like. We could leave England, if you’d like. Do our own research.”
“The Collar?”
“It’s an item—a gift, some would say—from your past self to my past self,” says James with a tired smile. “A powerful magical artefact. One Simon is keen on finding and using against me.”
“No. I’ll kill him first,” says Will, surprised to find that he means it. “He won’t touch you.”
That amuses James, who leans in and kisses him. Though Will doesn’t have any experience, it’s easy to want to pull him closer, to explore every part of his lips, to test different angles of kissing, and to let that pressure in his chest expand and contract pleasantly. James shudders and makes a sweet mewling noise, and when his hands—his real hands—tug at Will’s hips, Will follows without hesitation, so that he must prop up on his elbows, hovering over James.
When they kiss again, James parts his lips, inviting a deeper sort of kiss. Instead, Will takes James’ lower lip between his own and tugs. A phantom hand runs its fingers through Will’s hair, and they both gasp, bending towards each other like metal to flame. A pulse of desire shoots through him, his body never more alive than now, never more alive than with James. And though James might be very pleased to let him explore, Will knows they need more time.
He needs more time.
Their next kiss is chaste, and Will settles into James’ side, resting his head over James’ heart. If James is disappointed, he says nothing.
“I can’t believe we met yesterday,” says Will, shaking his head. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
James laughs. “It was a lifetime ago.”
“Right,” says Will with a frown, and James laughs again. “But technically we met only yesterday.”
“Technically, we met over ten thousand years ago,” says James.
“But James and Will met only yesterday,” says Will, insistent. “So we should be patient.”
“James and Will,” says James with a smile. He gives a delicate little sigh as he says it, and Will kisses his palm. “Yes.”