Page 26 of A Flowering of Ink

The rain shimmered, cascaded, flowed like veils in a dance. The thunder dwindled.

Devon sat up gingerly. As he did, he caught sight of his watch on the floor by the dresser. He winced at the pang of guilt, and stretched a long arm out to snag it. The silent face chose not to accuse him, not to stab him further. It only came readily to his hand.

It needed charging. He sighed, pushed himself upright, caught his balance with one hand on the foot of his bed. The ache at the back of his head remained, but less so.

When he opened the door, he did not see Burne.

The skewer of shock went through him, lightning indoors, a slice from a knife.

But—no. Burne hadn’t left. Those boots sat by Devon’s shoes. The e-reader perched on the sofa. Burne’s jacket hung on the hook. Here. Present. Visible. Tangible, if Devon walked over there to touch.

The guest room door was shut. Devon listened, couldn’t hear anything, bit his lip: standing with his hand on the door frame.

The closed door did another twist of the knife, in his gut. He knew that was Burne trying, yet again, to do the right thing. To be what Devon needed.

Right now Devon needed to fix this. And he’d have to do it right, with care, with love.

He looked at the rain, and the far-off horizon. No islands visible, across the water. But the balcony, the rooftops, the hillside, dripped and splashed and pooled like watercolor hues. Like art. Or ink, writing symbols, hieroglyphics, mysteries to decipher.

He had favorite pens. And paper.

He took a deep breath, because he could. Because he wanted this. Because maybe they didn’t know everything about each other yet, but they were learning, and he wanted to keep learning. Because he wanted to keep trying.

The guest room door hadn’t opened. But he had a plan, or the beginnings of one.

He stepped into his office, left the door ajar just in case, smiled at his rock and flower and sea-glass collection.

Burne had always made him smile. From that first letter-exchange, to this morning. And even now, when Devon pictured him: a tumble of red hair and beard, eyes like summer seas, emotion so free and ready to share.

He found paper, thick and creamy. He found the same dark blue pen he’d used for that first letter, so many weeks ago. He touched pen to paper, finding words.

Chapter 9

Burne heard the bedroom door open because he was listening hard. He nearly opened the guest room door. Hand on the knob. Poised. But he couldn’t.

Devon had asked for space. Devonneededspace. So pale, abruptly; voice taut, thinner, needing air—

He almost opened the door again. To help, to intervene, to take action—if Devon had fainted or collapsed or hit his head or felt too dizzy to stand—

But Devon had asked him not to be there. Burne shut his eyes, swore at himself, counted to ten. Did it a second time.

Devon needed a lack of stress, right now. And if he, Burne, caused that stress…

He’d said everything wrong. He knew he had. It’d spun out of control so fast, so ugly. His fault.

He just hadn’t thought, about the car. But of course he’d been wrong. Assumptions. Unfair. And he knew about Devon’s overprotective parents, knew about the strain that’d caused; he knew about Devon’s ex, the one who’d fussed over him every two minutes.

Because he’d been allowed to know those pieces. He’d been let in, into this world of roses and storm-clouds and art.

No wonder Devon had been frustrated. And then Burne had made it worse, by questioning him about the watch.

He hadn’t meant to. He’d been concerned, and then he’d been more than concerned, because the fear had hit hard and black and vicious.

That one he did want to apologize for, but he also wanted to talk about it. Because, thinking back, he was pretty sure Devon had been ignoring or not wearing the monitor most of the week so far. And he didn’t think that was maybe entirely healthy, if the whole point of the monitor was to be worn.

He couldn’t lose Devon. He couldn’t watch Devon put himself in danger, either. Those two truths burned like the first cup of coffee they’d made in the brand-new coffee machine, too hot, scorching.

He couldn’t imagine going back to days without bad puns, hand-sketched roses, complicated layers like sunlight across oceans. A life without Devon in it? No.

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