Sight of Stars - 1. Story

Sight of Stars


*~*~*

"Total light and total dark are the rarest of the rare. Good luck finding such a thing, cause I don't believe in them," Captain Galad'in told Samyel. "It's like God and the Devil. There's only one start and one finish, kid. Everything else falls somewhere in the middle."
p.348 The Kollan War, Book V in the Ten Thousand Suns series

*~*~*

 

Thomas lowered himself onto his stool and pulled the first of the day's deliveries between his legs.

 

The box had a rectangular label with stripes along the left side, and bold, off-center letters – from Panther Press, most likely. Thomas nudged it to the side with his shoe. The next had sturdy light-colored cardboard with a darker label. Vigilant of his fingers, he took up the box-cutters and sliced it open, inhaling the scent of fresh paper as he peeled the flaps apart. Inside lay twenty new hardcover books. He squinted at the covers; sometimes it helped his eyes differentiate between the shades of gray.

 

Today it didn't.

 

The box was the right shape for Callium Publishing, however, and Thomas had been expecting advance shipping of their new sci-fi novel, The Kollan War, so this was probably it.

 

Earlier in the week, Oscar had read him the synopsis from the publisher, pitching his voice deep to maximize the dramatic effect. Thomas had shrugged and pretended disinterest. He'd have to wait at least six months for the book to come out on CD, so giving in to his excitement at this juncture was useless. Still, he flipped open the top copy, snorting when the spine cracked. "You've popped its cherry!" Oscar always liked to yell, before cackling like a child.

 

He ran his hands over the open book. Crisp stock caressed the pads of his fingers, pulling his lips into a smile, and hundreds of tiny, illegible gray smudges dotted the page. Squinting blurred them even more, and his grin faded. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and snapped the book shut. He hadn't been able to read a book since he was a kid. It'd been ten years; time to get over the disappointment.

 

"There you are!" Oscar shuffled into the storeroom and sank onto an unopened box. Thomas heard it crumple slightly under his weight, but the cardboard and packing tape held. For now.

 

Oscar leaned forward to inspect the box between Thomas's knees. "The new sci-fi from Callium?"

 

"I think so."

 

Oscar lifted the topmost book out of the box. "Yep! That's it. We can't put it out until next Tuesday, though."

 

"I remember."

 

"What else have we got here?" Oscar stood, and the box groaned its thanks.

 

"A box from Panther and another one I haven't opened yet."

 

"Well, leave it for now and come up front. I've pulled the blinds, so I don't think you'll need your glasses."

 

Despite Oscar's reassurances, Thomas plucked his sunglasses from the collar of his t-shirt and settled them over his shaggy brown hair. He rubbed his face as he stood. "I'll try going without, but my eyes have been super sensitive today for some reason."

 

Oscar pushed some stray packing material out of the way and stuck out his elbow. Thomas pursed his lips, but accepted. Oscar claimed to understand Thomas's desire to do things on his own, but his grandfatherly instincts took over quite often. "I can manage," Thomas grumbled as Oscar guided him through the maze of shadows.

 

"Yep. I'm sure you can," Oscar said. "And if your jeans weren't six inches too long, I might even believe you." He gave a wheezy chuckle.

 

The subject of his threadbare wardrobe was a tired one, so Thomas held his tongue.

 

They ambled through an old, battered door and into the shop – a journey of no more than fifteen feet, but to Thomas, it felt like he'd traveled to a different world. The shadows remained, his constant companions, but everything else changed. The chill of the backroom disappeared, replaced by the stuffy warmth of the bookshop. He inhaled the comforting smells of old paper, tobacco, and wood smoke.

 

Tall bookshelves formed a convoluted maze that Oscar navigated with ease, and soon a small seating area and crackling fire appeared. It added ambiance, one of Oscar's requirements, but always made Thomas nervous. The fire glowed as a bright spot in his vision, the flames so light a grey they were almost white. The tiniest hint of orange flickered around the edges.

 

"Just plant yourself right here and enjoy the fire. I'll go get our lunch," Oscar said. His blunt fingers pressed against Thomas's chest, nudging him into the chair behind the counter. "I've been craving Chinese since last Thursday. You want the usual? I'll only be gone about a half-hour."

 

Thomas scooted the chair forward, folded his long legs under the counter, and rested his chin on his elbows. "That's fine." Oscar grunted and shrugged into his coat. Thomas stared, imagining he could see Oscar's fingers deftly pushing the buttons through their holes while his tongue peeked out the corner of his mouth.

 

All conjecture, of course. To Thomas's damaged eyes, Oscar was nothing more than a dark smudge against the rest of the shadows.

 

"Dim enough for you?" Oscar asked. "I turned off most of the lights."

 

"Fine," Thomas replied, truthfully. "You're right, I don't need the glasses."

 

"I'll be back soon. The sign's turned so nobody should bother you."

 

"I'll be fine." Thomas made a shooing motion. "Bring back extra soy sauce."

 

With Oscar gone and no task to occupy him, Thomas indulged by dozing off over the counter, head cradled on his arms, but a sudden flurry of crackling – a log collapsing in the fire – startled him awake a few minutes later. Wary, he watched as the bright gray flames licked around the base of the log, struggling for air before they smoldered and died. He bit his lip, then slid out of the chair and made his way to where the tools were queued against the brick. With a deep breath, he reached for the heavy tongs.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

Thomas leapt back and spun to face the voice. His blurred vision failed to keep up, and the room gave a sickening lurch. With a small cry, he reached for the mantle, and found a large, warm hand instead.

 

"Are you okay? God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Listen, I know the sign says closed, but the door was unlocked, and I really, really need a particular book. It's for a presentation I have to give in about—" The man turned his wrist, presumably to look at his watch, pulling Thomas closer as he did so. "—twenty minutes." The man pumped Thomas's hand a couple of times in a crude handshake. "Think you could help me out?"

 

Thomas heard the grin in the man's voice, even if he couldn't see it on his face. He shook away the last of his dizziness. "The sign said closed."

 

"I know." The man gave a self-conscious laugh. "You're probably going to accuse me of being illiterate next, right?"

 

The fact that it had been on the tip of his tongue to do just that forestalled Thomas's snappish reply. "I just . . . don't understand why you'd ignore the sign." He stepped back as he spoke, breaking their contact. For the first time, he let his eyes focus on the shadow in front of him. His quick indrawn breath didn't go unnoticed.

 

"Are you really okay?" the man asked. Thomas noticed him advancing and backed up another step.

 

"Fine." And also stunned. The man shone as brightly as Oscar's roaring mid-winter fires. It was . . . unnatural. And intriguing.

 

"Listen." The man cleared his throat. "I have to give a lecture at noon, and I just realized I lent my primary reference book to a student. I know the old guy who runs this place keeps a few copies. I've seen them here before."

 

"I've never seen you before," Thomas said. It was an absurd observation, especially for him, but that didn't change the truth of it.

 

"Really? Well, I've never seen you, either." The reply was soft, peppered with a hint of amusement. "I would've definitely remembered."

 

A simple statement that couldn't mean what Thomas thought it might. Not directed at him, at any rate. He shook the thought off. "I'm sorry," he said. "I want to help you, but I'm not sure . . . ." At a loss, he pointed to his eyes. "I won't be able to find your book."

 

"Oh! I’m sorry, I didn't realize. You don't seem . . . ." The man extended a blurry hand, and his fingers brushed Thomas's arm. "That was unbelievably rude of me."

 

"No, it's okay. I'm not totally blind. I mean, I can see a little. Shapes mostly." He pushed his hands into his pockets. "But there's no way I could pick out a particular book from the shelf."

 

"That's okay." The fingers squeezed his arm before falling away. "I know exactly where it is. I saw it last week. You're being a real sport about this—"

 

"Thomas."

 

"Thomas. Thank you! I'll just get it and meet you at the counter." He turned and meandered off into the stacks. The imprint of his fingertips still tingled across Thomas's skin and unexpected warmth bloomed in his stomach. He ignored it and made his way across the room to the register.

 

"Hey," the man called as Thomas slipped behind the counter. "Your fire's going out."

 

Thomas winced. He'd forgotten about that. "I know. I was getting ready to mess with it when you came in." He shrugged. "Just leave it. I'm not really comfortable having the grate off anyway. There's something about open flame in a bookshop."

 

Easy laughter drifted back to him. "Okay, so I'm not the only one whose mind is screaming fire hazard."

 

"No," Thomas replied with a chuckle. "Oscar – that's the owner – he kind of insists on it when the weather's chilly. He calls it ambiance." He watched as the man stepped out of a nearby aisle and drifted forward, a bright white splotch among the gray. When he got to the counter, he placed a book in front of Thomas.

 

"Ambiance? It counts for something, I suppose. This is a cozy sort of place." Tentatively, he held out his hand, then started to draw it back. "Um—"

 

Thomas grabbed it before good sense could stop him. "I told you, I can see some things."

 

"So you did." The amusement returned to the man's voice as they shook hands. "I'm Seth, by the way, and you're a life saver. How much do I owe you?"

 

"Damn." Reality crashed in. Thomas chided himself for letting his emotions run away with his brain. "God, I don't even know. I can't even open the register right now."

 

Seth groaned. He raised his arm, and Thomas flinched, helpless against the gut reaction. But all Seth did was snap his fingers. "I've got it," he exclaimed. "I'll just leave you more than enough to cover the cost, then stop by for change later."

 

Thomas hoped the blush he felt on his cheeks wasn't as noticeable as it felt. If Seth had noticed his strange behavior, he wasn't saying so. "I'm not sure—"

 

"Please, Thomas. You have no idea what this means to me."

 

The heat that washed through him this time wasn't embarrassment. Thomas tamped it down. "Okay."

 

"Yes! Thank you!" More movement in front of him, then a bill was pressed into his hand. "It's a twenty. I know the book is only $14.95, but I don't have anything smaller. Just hang on to the change until I can swing back around, okay?"

 

Thomas smoothed the bill between his fingers. He'd no way of knowing if it really was a twenty, of course. He could squint at it until he was Oscar's age and never be sure. Strangely, he wasn’t worried. He closed his fist around the money. "That's fine. It'll be waiting for you. Just ask at the counter."

 

"You won't be here?"

 

Thomas shrugged. "I'm always here. But not usually up front. Too bright."

 

"The light bothers your eyes?"

 

"Yeah, it can be pretty painful." Uncomfortable, Thomas pushed the book forward. "There you go. I hope your lecture goes well."

 

Seth took up the book and slipped it somewhere. A backpack, maybe. Thomas couldn't be sure. "Thanks. It's my first, and I'm kind of nervous. I'm a student teacher in the MA program."

 

The ever-present envy welled up. Like so many of his other emotions, Thomas swallowed it back. "Ah," was his noncommittal reply.

 

"Do you go to the—"

 

"No," Thomas interrupted. "I don't."

 

Seth hesitated. "Well, okay. Thanks again, Thomas. You saved my ass. I mean that."

 

"Glad I could help."

 

He tracked Seth's shadow across the shop and out the door before smoothing the bill flat on the counter and pushing it under a paperweight.

*~*~*

 

 

 

"Thomas!" Oscar called.

 

Carefully, Thomas slid the packing box to one side and stood. "What is it?"

 

"Could you come up front for a minute?"

 

Concern carried Thomas through the storeroom with as much speed as he could muster. "Are you all right?" he asked as he made his way into the shop and toward the front, fingertips brushing the bookcases as he went.

 

He burst into the open area near the front, going faster than was prudent, and nearly tripped over his feet when he saw who was there.

 

At no other time in the ten years since he'd lost his ability to see had Thomas been able to recognize a person on sight. Even Oscar, his friend of two years, was little more than a shadow against a monotone of grays. But Seth . . . he glowed like a beacon.

 

"What are you doing here?" Thomas asked, breathless.

 

"You recognize me!" Seth's deep laugh filled the shop, and Thomas's toes curled in his sneakers. "I didn't think you would."

 

"I didn't think he could," Oscar admitted. Thomas didn't miss the speculative tone. "Your friend's come back for his money."

 

"Okay." Thomas hovered awkwardly a few feet away. "Why'd you need me? I told you how much change to give him."

 

Seth cleared his throat. "That's my fault. I wanted to thank you again, and—" His voice cut off. "Oh hey. Hey! Is that the new book in the Ten Thousand Suns series?"

 

Apparently, Seth had been put on the earth to keep him forever off his guard. Thomas floundered for a moment before realizing he still held a book in his hand. "Y-yeah. I was unpacking the box when Oscar called me."

 

Seth gave a low whistle. "I've been waiting for that one for two years. I'm dying to see whether Samyel follows the Captain or stays with his brother. Personally, I think he'll go."

 

Thomas basked in the instant camaraderie. "Me too," he breathed.

 

"You follow the series?"

 

"Sure." His feet carried him forward, his awkwardness forgotten. "Since the very first book. I can't believe he made us wait two years for the fifth one."

 

"I know." Seth's shadow shook its head. "Lucky you, though, right?" He pointed at the novel. "I have to wait for next Tuesday. You can read it now."

 

A weighty silence descended, but Thomas surprised everyone, including himself, by bursting into laughter. "I can't read it," he said. "But if I could, yeah, I would – screw the publisher."

 

"Jesus, Thomas, I'm sorry. Sometimes I don't even think before I speak. It's one of my many faults." Seth sounded horrified, but Thomas waved it off.

 

"It's okay."

 

"Don't let it happen again," Oscar piped in.

 

"Oscar!" Thomas berated.

 

"I'll read it to you."

 

Thomas heard Oscar's muffled gasp of surprise. For a long moment, he was too stunned to speak. "You—" His tongue tangled up around the rest.

 

Seth's words tumbled over each other in a rush. "I mean, we can wait until it officially comes out, you know. I don't want to get you in any trouble. But I'd . . . I'd like to, if you want."

 

The thought terrified and excited him in equal measure. Thomas took a deep breath and chewed the idea over for five seconds before he realized it wouldn't work. Reading was intimate, and he couldn't – wouldn't – get that intimate with anybody. Yet he couldn't bring himself to say no. Childishly, he prayed for Oscar to be the responsible adult and step in on his behalf.

 

Unfortunately for him, Oscar never passed up an opportunity to embarrass his young charge.

 

"No need to wait!" he boomed. "I never do. Don't pass that tidbit around, of course, but after dealing with snot-nosed university punks ten months out of the year, I deserve a few perks. Why don't you start tonight?"

 

Thomas gaped. "Oscar."

 

"But maybe you should come after closing, so nobody bothers you, hmm? Around seven? You could read right here, in front of the fire." Oscar's raspy voice became over-enthusiastic. "I'll make Irish coffees."

 

"Oscar!" Thomas hissed.

 

"I'd love that," Seth answered, half-laughing. He turned and placed a bright shadow arm on Thomas's shoulder. "I mean, as long as it's okay with Thomas."

 

"I—" He let fear battle excitement a moment longer before speaking. "Okay."

*~*~*

 

 

 

Seth's genuine friendliness earned him points with Oscar, but did nothing to alleviate Thomas's nerves. For the rest of the afternoon, he considered hiding in his small apartment above the shop and having Oscar cancel the . . . whatever it was. Date?

 

He pouted all through their evening inventory. "I'm sure all he's interested in is the book. You should've just sold him an advance copy."

 

"Nope. Don't think so."

 

"You're an interfering old man."

 

"He's a good enough looking lad, if you like the scruffy type. Couldn't take his eyes off you either."

 

That lie hurt the most. Thomas brooded over his packing boxes. "I don't believe you."

 

"Believe what you like," Oscar retorted. "It doesn't change the truth."

 

"Save the sage advice. You're not my father."

 

Oscar's pencil stopped scratching over the manifest. "No, and I'll thank you not to compare me to that bastard in the future." His clipboard fell to the floor with a crash, and Thomas jumped when Oscar jerked the stack of books from his hands. "Now stop acting like you're two instead of twenty, go upstairs, take a shower, and do something about your foul mood."

 

Chastised, Thomas obeyed.

*~*~*

 

 

 

Lack of punctuality wasn't one of Seth's faults. He arrived five minutes early, and Oscar herded them to the fire-lit sofa.

 

Thomas swiped his damp palms over his jeans. "I really appreciate this," he said again.

 

"Stop that," Seth replied. "You're acting like I'm doing you a favor when it's the exact opposite." He sipped from his coffee mug. "Props to Oscar. The ambiance is perfect."

 

Thomas grinned. He studied Seth's shadow, backlit by the flames in the hearth, struck again by how it glowed.

 

Seth plunked his mug onto the table and took up the book. He held it for a long time before he spoke. "I've been looking forward to this all day."

 

Thomas nodded. "Me too. I thought I'd have to wait months for the CD."

 

Seth's low, rumbling laugh washed over him. To Thomas, he sounded like a purring lion. "I wasn't talking about the book."

 

Ribbons of sparks tingled through Thomas's chest. "Oh."

 

"Ready?" There was no mistaking the grin behind the question.

 

"Yeah. Ready."

 

Seth opened the book. The spine cracked, and Thomas bit his tongue before it spit out something inappropriate.

 

"Okay," Seth said, "Chapter one. Samyel watched the sea for a fortnight, but Captain Galad'in never returned. The man wouldn't know a promise from a piss barrel, Samyel thought bitterly. If being left behind wasn't insult enough, each night the red suns of Tarns haunted his dreams. He knew that if Kollan were drawn into the war, whatever the captain had hoped to spare him from would come anyway, and soon."

 

Seth was a natural. Much better than the actor who read for the CDs. He gave Samyel's voice the same sharp inflection that Thomas had always thought it needed, and Galad'in's brogue, reminiscent of Oscar's, fit flawlessly with the captain's gruff nature. Seth rarely stumbled over words, despite some of the more difficult pronunciations, and kept a perfect pace.

 

His voice lulled. Releasing the last of his reservations, Thomas shut his eyes and fell into the story.

 

When Seth stopped reading sometime later, Thomas kept his eyes closed, savoring how the echoes tingled along his spine. His mouth was dry and his pulse tripped in time with his shallow breaths. He couldn't recall having a more sensual encounter – although his experience was, admittedly, nonexistent. "Thank you," he whispered.

 

Calloused fingers traced a line across his wrist. "Anytime." The fingers withdrew. "In fact, what about tomorrow night? Is that okay? Tomorrow?"

 

"Yeah. Tomorrow's perfect."

*~*~*

 

 

 

His evenings became all about the accidental touch. When passing the coffee mug, Seth's fingers danced along the back of his hand. When Thomas stretched out along the cushions, the sole of his foot brushed Seth's knee. They took turns at first, one reclining, one not, until the night Seth swung his legs up beside Thomas's. From then on they sat slouched against opposite arms of the sofa, legs tangled.

 

Little by little, Thomas warmed to the routine, forgetting that he didn't like to be touched.

 

Seth drank his coffee black (unless Oscar treated them to his famous Irish concoction) and insisted that pizza needed pepperoni to be palatable. He wore glasses to read, played tennis with his sister on the weekends, and was six months away from defending his Masters thesis. He appreciated Thomas's taste in bad jokes.

 

He shared the details of his life with unwavering honesty.

 

So when asked, Thomas reciprocated.

 

"Was it an accident?"

 

"No. I got sick. A disease. When I was ten."

 

Seth squeezed his knee. "I'm sorry."

 

Thomas shrugged.

 

"What about your family?" Seth took a loud sip of his coffee.

 

Thomas flashed a bitter smile. "Oscar's been my family since I turned eighteen. Before that, it was just my father and older brother. I don't miss them." He swallowed hard and scrubbed his hands over his bare arms, soothing long-healed bruises.

 

Seth digested the confession and its implications in silence. Eventually his voice returned, restrained anger in tow. "I'm glad you found Oscar."

 

"Me too. I've known him since I was little. Used to hang around his shop all the time. If he hadn't offered me the job and the apartment . . . ."

 

"Ten years. I can't imagine. What do you miss the most?"

 

Finally, an easy question. "Reading."

*~*~*

 

 

 

They went ten days without a break, and by the eleventh, Thomas suspected Seth was the Devil in disguise. There was no other explanation for the torment. Not to mention that being constantly on the knife's-edge of arousal and wishing away the daylight hours played havoc with his productivity. Boxes began to stack up in the storeroom.

 

"Do you want more coffee?" Seth asked when they came to the end of a chapter.

 

"Sure. I can get it."

 

"No, let me. I need to stretch." Only he didn't stand and stretch. Instead, he pulled his arms high over his head and bowed his back over the end of the couch. Robbed of the details of the vision, Thomas created his own, imagining how Seth's sweater stretched over the skin of his stomach and how the worn denim pulled across his thighs and groin.

 

Seth straightened his legs, flexed his calf muscles, and his toes brushed a trail across the inside of Thomas's thigh. The brief touch undid him. His stomach clenched. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Startled by the surge of lust, Thomas gasped and froze.

 

Seth went statue still. Then he shot to his feet, almost knocking Thomas off the sofa in the process. "Gonna grab that coffee," he called over his shoulder.

 

When he came back, many minutes later, he kept his feet firmly on the floor.

*~*~*

 

 

 

The next night he called to cancel. "I'm sorry, but I can't make it," he said as Thomas cradled the receiver against his shoulder. "I'm really busy."

 

"You sound stressed," Thomas remarked.

 

"Yeah. I'll see you soon." Seth hung up, and Thomas spent the evening alone in front of the fire. The book found its way into his lap more than once, and he'd surface from his reverie to find his fingers playing with the dog-ear that marked their current page.

*~*~*

 

 

 

Seth returned nervous and agitated – one hardly needed perfect vision to sense that. He almost dropped his coffee twice, burned his fingers, then set the mug down without even taking a sip.

 

"What chapter did we leave off at?" he asked.

 

Thomas watched him huddle at the far end of the sofa. Gripped with foreboding, he asked, "Are you sure you're okay? You're acting weird."

 

"Weird?"

 

"Yeah." On a deep breath, he reached for Seth's hand, curled their fingers together and squeezed. Seth started at the contact, and Thomas's heart sank. "We don't have to do this tonight if you're getting sick or something," he pressed.

 

Seth shifted. "I'm not getting sick." His voice flowed over Thomas's rattled nerves, soothing as it always did. "I'm just—"

 

"Just?"

 

Seth's breath whistled through his teeth. "Nothing. It's nothing. I'm fine. I want to read." He leant forward and yanked the book off the coffee table.

 

The foreboding ripened into anxiety. Thomas reached for the book, just catching the edge when Seth tried to open it. "You're lying. You don't have to read if you're not in the mood."

 

"I'm not— Jesus. I'm not lying. Relax, okay?"

 

Thomas's throat closed. He nodded, the best response he could manage, and retreated, sliding back on the couch until his back hit the armrest. Seth opened the book, his shadow nothing but sharp stabs of movement against the gray glow of the fire. The sound of flipping pages filled the very quiet room. Thomas couldn't even hear himself breathe. His fingers dug into his palms. He closed his eyes and waited for Seth's voice.

 

When it came, it wasn't Captain Galad'in's unique accent or Samyel's clipped tones. It was just Seth, sounding miserable. "Fuck. I can't—" The book closed with a dull thud. For nearly a minute, neither said a word.

 

It was his ever-present sense of preservation (sadly lacking these days) that prompted Thomas to speak first. "It's okay. You lasted longer than I thought you would." Remarkable, he thought, how the words spilled from his lips without the slightest hesitation. By all accounts, feigning indifference was just like riding a bike. "Thanks for . . ." He trailed off. For once, he felt honesty wasn't the best course. "Just . . . thanks."

 

Graceless, he stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over the table. Seth's coffee mug jumped to the left, tottered, then slid to the floor, but Thomas couldn't bring himself to care. An invisible vise squeezed his chest.

 

Seth stepped in front of him. "Where are you going?"

 

"Upstairs," Thomas croaked.

 

"I don't want . . . I want . . . fuck!" Seth's arms shot out, reaching for him, and Thomas stumbled back, batting defensively at the grabbing hands. Off-balance, he careened backward, but Seth saved him, just like before. He slid his arms around Thomas's waist, steadying him. Pulling him close.

 

"You don't ever have to be afraid of me, do you understand?" Seth whispered harshly into his ear. "Ever."

 

Thomas rode out the rush of adrenaline before nodding. "I'm sorry. I'm not. I'm not afraid of you." He tried to squirm away. "Goodbye, Seth."

 

"Christ, you are blind, you know that?" Exasperation seeped into Seth's voice. "I don't want to leave. That's the last thing I want. What I was trying to say, and fucking it up spectacularly, was that—" He slipped his hands upward and sifted his fingers through Thomas's hair. "—I've been leaving here every night not remembering a word of what I read. I can barely string two sentences together in my lectures." He sighed. "I tried taking a break, staying away for a night. I thought if I put some distance between us it would help, but that didn't work either. The thing is, I can't concentrate on reading that damn book when all I . . . Tommy, all I want to do is touch you."

 

Thomas's breath whooshed from his lungs.

 

Seth shivered when it breezed across his neck. "But you jump every time we get close, and I just don't know . . . is it me?" he asked with a nervous laugh. "I've been trying like hell not to scare you."

 

Somehow, Thomas's hands found their way to Seth's waist even as his stomach twisted in knots. "You're not scaring me." He fisted his hands into Seth's t-shirt. "And I want you to touch me."

 

Seth answered with actions instead of words. He pulled them together, chest to chest, toe to toe, and Thomas swore he heard him purr. Then the lips that had been teasing his temple worked their way down and over his nose and pressed gently against his own.

 

Before Thomas could react, they were gone. "Okay?" Seth asked, his voice low and rough.

 

Thomas nodded. He lifted his fingers to his lips. "Yeah. Very okay."

 

With a muffled curse, Seth swept back in, his previous tenderness thankfully absent. Thomas whimpered under the onslaught. But when Seth tugged him backward toward the sofa, reality pushed the passion aside.

 

In that instant, for the first time ever, he couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel. "Stop," he said, gasping for breath. "We can't. This will never work."

 

"That's a fucking stupid thing to say, and it's not true."

 

"Seth! I can't even walk down the street during the day. I can't do normal things. This isn't some soap opera. It's life. Yours is out there. Mine . . . it isn't."

 

"We'll meet in the middle."

 

"I—"

 

"Are you saying you're not willing to try?" Seth stood very still, voice strained. "There's room for adjustment. Lots of room. It doesn't have to be you in here and me out there. Not all the time." He dipped his head, pressed his lips to the skin below Thomas's ear.

 

The strength went out of Thomas's legs.

 

"Please," Seth whispered. "Please. Let me show you."

 

"Stop. Stop that." Breathless, Thomas tried to pull away. "I'm trying to think."

 

"Then think."

 

"Then stop touching me for a minute," Thomas snapped.

 

Seth's quiet laughter made goose bumps break out across Thomas's body. "Okay. But just for a minute. That's my stipulation. Can you do your thinking in under a minute?" He swiped his thumb across Thomas's cheek, then dropped his hands and stepped back.

 

"What do you say?" he asked. "Can we try this?"

 

Thomas squinted at Seth, praying just once for his eyes to cooperate. Shadows loomed all around him – the sofa, the table, the bookshelves. Beside them, the fire crackled merrily, its bright gray glow mirroring Seth's own unusual aura. A long forgotten memory rose up: the sight of the night sky, full of stars that burned hot in the chill of space. Ten thousand of them.

 

He gathered his resolve. "Okay," he said. "Yes." He reached for Seth and traced the lines of his face with his fingers. "Show me."

*~*~*

"You're a stubborn bastard, Galad'in!" Samyel yelled over the howling wind. "When are you going to figure out you can't win this war without me?"

Galad'in roared with laughter. "Answer me this, kid. Why are the young ones always born with their eyes closed?"

p. 603 The Kollan War, Book V in the Ten Thousand Suns series

 

© 2008 Libby Drew