Page 11 of A Flowering of Ink

I do love it. Oh. Yes. Burne was answering him. Three months isn’t enough time, honestly.

Is that how long you’ve been there?

Nearly. I’ve got just under a month left. I do miss people who aren’t the same ten researchers and grad students, especially when it’s Mike’s turn to make the coffee.

Terrible?

Awful. It’s like a curse. No grad student should be that bad at coffee. Especially given how central it is to student existence. Oh, wait, you’re a tea person, aren’t you? Heathen.

Not by choice,Devon protested. He was grinning so much his face hurt. He got up, and took Burne into his kitchen, and found his kettle.First of all, my father’s from London. Second, I’m not supposed to have much caffeine. Small amounts are okay, but herbal tea’s safe and easy, so I got used to it.

Good to know, in case we ever have a coffee and tea date.

Devon nearly dropped his kettle. He actually did let go, but flailed and caught it.

He managed to send back,I also like really good fish tacos. If dinner’s an option.

Taking notes. Can I ask you a question? Just once, I swear, and I won’t ask again, but you said I could.

Ah. It’d be that question. He’d been wondering how soon they’d get there. The excitement ebbed but didn’t vanish. Burne wasn’t the ex who’d tried to coddle him, Devonhadsaid the phone number could be used for reassurance, and Burne had promised to only ask once. Listening to him.

You’re going to ask how I am,he sent.I’m okay. Banged my elbow and shoulder when I fell over; nothing worse than bruises. Here, one sec…

He thanked the universe that he’d grabbed a nice shirt for the video call earlier, and had bothered to do his hair, so that had some style, a darkly shining sweep across his face. He had on casual jeans, but the shirt was flattering: navy blue, but with violet buttons and matching violet inside, so the rolled-up sleeves held a pop of color.

He leaned back against the counter, used the thundercloud hue of his cabinets as a backdrop, decided he looked decent enough. Hit send.There. Photographic proof of life.

Burne started typing. Stopped. Started again. Stopped again. Finally:Okay, so, I just said “holy shit” out loud and scared a seagull.

Tell it I apologize for your language?

I’m not apologizing to a seagull for thinking you’re hot, because you are and I do. I mean, wow.

It’s good lighting and this shirt. But thank you.

Do you seriously not know how gorgeous you are? Art. You. No arguing. And also…thanks.

For the proof of life? No problem.

For telling me. Even little stuff like you having a banged-up elbow. You let me know things about you, and I’m honored.

I’m making a pot of orange ginger mint, if you’d like to know one more thing. This mug was a present from one of my sisters.He sent a picture. The large print on the side announced to the world that Architects Do It (Frank Lloyd) Wright.

Oh my God, Burne said, and then,wait, tell me more about how, exactly, architects do it? Still taking notes.And Devon started laughing again, helplessly, happily, standing in his kitchen and texting a gorgeous scientist, maybe possibly managing successful flirting with said gorgeous scientist, awash with evening light like the gold and fuchsia and pumpkin-orange out over the ocean, like the thrill in his veins.

Chapter 5

Burne knew he was in love. He thought he might’ve been in love the second he’d opened that first-ever envelope to find art and warmth and genius and humor. Over the next weeks he learned more and more, shared more and more, and tumbled willingly further into a vast glowing tide pool of emotion.

He and Devon texted every day, throughout the day. Not continuously—they were both working—and some days more than others, but one of them always sent a good morning upon getting up, normally with a snapshot of tea or Burne’s own obsidian-black dark roast. They always said good night, too.

In between, so many small joys piled up, and grew bigger for being shared.

He learned that Devon liked salsa and tomato sauce but very specifically disliked tomato slices.Texture!Devon protested when Burne sent him a disapproving cat gif.

He learned that Devon liked watching cooking shows as a way to decompress, and was a decent cook, at least by his own standards. He learned that Devon had had three previous boyfriends, all exes, none too serious. Devon did not offer too much detail, but mentioned that one had been impatient and easily annoyed, and one had been far too overprotective, including in bed. Burne sat on his own bed and processed that information, and his resultant surging emotions, for a while.

Devon in bed. That raven-wing hair, those smoky eyes, those slim strong arms. Fuck yes. And Devon could clearly have sex, given that wry aside about the bedroom. Which meant that he, Burne, could—he could touch the hair, the smooth skin along that forearm, Devon’s waist, the curve of his hip—

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