Roger picked up his fork, put it back down, and asked, somewhat more hesitantly than he meant to, “Why would you not? Speak, that is.”
Edward sobered all at once, lifting his hand to cover his cheek and one eye. “I suppose we would have had to speak of it at some point regardless,” he muttered, seemingly to himself. He lowered his hand and looked at Roger almost beseechingly, as though what he was about to say might make Roger change his mind. “I held my tongue because…well, you know my past, better than anyone save Vincent,” he said, still gazing entreatingly at Roger.
For a moment Roger couldn’t think what he could possibly have meant, and then it clicked into place—his past lovers, of course, and how foolish indeed—and he grabbed for Edward’s hand, now sitting on the table between the
