Page 21 of A Flowering of Ink

They untangled themselves, eventually. Devon laughed a little, in the way of someone surprised by happiness, unable to keep it all in. Burne wanted to touch him everyplace, arms around him, kisses to that mouth and that eyebrow and the top of his head.

He said, “I brought you something.”

Devon looked down at himself, climax-splashed. Lifted both eyebrows.

Burne, halfway through getting up, burst out laughing. “Not that! Or, I guess that, okay, but also a present. Stay right there.”

“Could you grab one of those blankets, that blue plaid, for—”

“Oh, right, here.” Clean-up first. He helped, not because Devon couldn’t but because Burne wanted to. Something pure and intimate, not possessive but connecting them, about that. His hands, a blanket, cleaning traces of their mingled release from Devon’s smooth skin.

He yanked his jeans back up, found his bag. “It’s not very big, but I picked it up on the beach, on the island, the day before I left. I thought…I don’t know, you might like it. How we met, or where we met.”

The small stone was grey and white, ocean-rubbed to smoothness. Entirely naturally, it formed the shape of a heart, unmistakable.

“Oh,” Devon breathed, cradling it. His shirt remained open, though he’d pulled the silky underwear up. The scars were visible but unremarked. “Oh, it’s a love story.” His eyes were castles, cathedrals, places to worship. “I’m having some ideas. About structures, and shapes. Foundations.”

“Starting-points,” Burne said, “for building more,” and got a luminous smile in reply.

Devon gave him the proper tour, after a now necessary, shared, and sweetly exhilarating shower. The entire bathroom was doing its best impression of oceans, in green and blue glass, pale floor tile, silvery uncluttered curves in fixtures and lighting. Burne fell more in love, inadvertently.

Out of the shower, he adored the enchantment of bed and bedroom, the small garden and crystalline pool, the balcony. In Devon’s studio, he was allowed to see the art in progress, the watercolor capturing the coastal fantasia of the view. Devon blushed, but let him look, and admitted, “I’ve felt like working on some art, lately?”

“All the genius,” Burne said firmly, and squeezed his hand.

In Devon’s office, he paused, awash with wonder. His own small gifts, arranged and displayed. Dried flowers, sea-glass, stones. Right there where Devon made magic happen.

Devon said, quietly, “I always like thinking of you.” His hair was rumpled, not sleek, drying post-shower. He was barefoot, having thrown on silky black pants and a simple green shirt. His eyes rested on Burne, and the emotion there lay open and revealed.

“The day you wrote to me,” Burne said, “I think might’ve been the actual best day of my life.” The honor of it hummed through his veins. He was also barefoot, callused toes over Devon’s opulent rugs. He’d changed too, older worn jeans and a university-logo hoodie.

The rugs were everywhere. He knew why, and hurt with knowing. But it was a welcome hurt: Devon knew about possible dizziness, and had done something about it, for himself. Caring for himself.

“Mine as well.” Devon slid an arm around his waist, stepping closer, holding on. “And now you’re here. I can make dinner, if you’d like? I’m good at butter chicken, and maybe a spinach salad?”

“I can help,” Burne said, entire self offered up in the words. “Just tell me what to do.”

The evening was perfect. The night was perfect. They ate outside, watching stars emerge, surrounded by cool crisp air and the low ever-present rush of the sea. They talked about everything, from mystery novels and crime dramas to favorite fruits for breakfast smoothies, from names for a hypothetical pet unicorn-cat to the need for a quiet office and space to focus. They thought alike in so many ways, though Devon had a dismaying tendency to want to name a unicorn-cat using terrible puns. Burne poked him in the ribs for Purr-sephone, and just groaned at Meow-lin.

“No, it’d be fitting,” Devon said, “because it’d be magical, like Merlin the magician, you know—”

“Yes,” Burne said, and leaned over to bite his ear, with love. “I got it, thank you.”

They listened to the waves, breathing roses and salt, managing to fit close together in Devon’s big swinging chair. After a while, Burne let a hand wander: up along one slim thigh, across Devon’s hip.

Devon’s smile was an answer. So was his hand sneaking under Burne’s hoodie, up across Burne’s chest, exploring the tangle of fuzz there. He even did a tiny lip-lick, a head-tilt back at the house and that bedroom; his expression teased the next step, and the next.

They went to bed together, in Devon’s glorious pillowy dream-ocean bed. Burne glanced at his own rough skin, nicks and scuffs against decadent luxury; but Devon put both arms around him and pulled him in, and they fit together as if they’d always been meant to.

They fit in bed, as well. They both were up for switching, playing, exploring, whatever suited the mood; Devon said everything and anything would be good, though it would help if they made it gradual and deliberate rather than sharp and hard. Burne nodded, committed that to memory, and gathered Devon against him. His fingers, his hand. He learned how Devon felt inside and out.

Devon bought expensive lube, a brand Burne had never even heard of but that felt like priceless satin against his hand. He watched Devon’s face, drank in each expression, every noise and clench and response when Burne did that motion, or the other thing, or more, with fingers and mouth. He made it slow, exquisitely so, because he needed to.

For Devon, who trusted him. For himself, because the honor of it—being trusted with this man—made reverent joy echo and redouble beneath his skin.

He whispered, “Like this, this time?” and Devon whispered back, “Yes, please fuck me,” and spread those long legs, artless and wonderful. Burne found the condoms—Devon had evidently done some shopping, and his own chest ached at that, with a nameless anguished tenderness—and came back to him and pushed into him, slow and tender but deep.

Devon came like that, quivering under him, Burne’s cock moving inside him and Burne’s hand gently stroking his length; that release was swift and sudden and beautiful, almost transcendent as it happened, Devon’s eyes and mouth wide and soft with rapture. Burne saw him, felt him, had to move. Harder, body thrusting, desperate. Devon gasped and moaned and clung to him, and Burne came apart and poured out everything, like lightning, like a cloudburst, like love.

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