The sweetness slid through him, and redoubled: and that wasn’t metaphorical, that was Theo doing—something, Henry couldn’t think, but something with their magic and sensation and need—all those channels Theo was holding open…
He could see himself and feel himself, but that wasn’t him looking and feeling, it was Theo: drinking him in, awed and thrilled and lit up everyplace with this, with the sight of Henry so abandoned in his bed, shining rose glass buried in his body, hair sticking to his face, wholly Theo’s…that was Theo’s building unspooling want, dreamy as candlelight, slow and creamy as molten wax…
Theo said, or didn’t quite say—a feeling, not a thought—I love this/love you/love seeing you/like this/all mine, and the thought was summer-warm and shyly bright, Theo seeing this fantas
