Robbie rubs Lance’s arm through the blanket, murmuring something that Lance can’t make out—maybe something about a doctor. But Lance could close his eyes and moan at just the weight of Robbie’s hand and the delicious reality of his body warming the bed Lance is lying in.

He wants to tell Robbie to stop touching him. He also wants to grab Robbie’s hand and thrust it between his legs. He’s paralyzed by these warring feelings.

“Lance? Kid?” Robbie touches his cheek. “Sweetheart, are you crying?” His voice cracks slightly on the endearment. So slightly, like a fissure in varnish with the wood solid beneath it. Robbie’s thumb brushes away a tear from Lance’s cheekbone.

“I’m just,” Lance breathes, “so…Robbie?” He’s asking for something, but he doesn’t even know what. He shudders, but not from the cold. He pushes his face against Robbie’s hand, speechless, and then can’t contain a little cry when Robbie’s other hand runs down his blanket-covered side to his waist and pulls their bodies together under the blankets.

“Lance.” His name is a sigh on Robbie’s lips, stirring his hair. And Lance’s hammering heart is pressed to Robbie’s chest, where he can feel Robbie’s heartbeat in turn; together, they make a confusion of rhythms, fast and desperate. Then Robbie’s lips are at his temple, his beard surprisingly soft on Lance’s face. Lance tips his head back, questing, his nose dragging through the bristle of Robbie’s beard, presenting his panting mouth. He wants this most forbidden thing: Robbie’s kiss. He wants it no matter the price. In this way, he’s forever the boy he thought he’d left here, the boy it turned out he could never leave behind after all. The feeling he had of conflict—Robbie’s love, or Robbie’s wanting—is forgotten now.

Robbie is very still, his face angled just slightly away so that the corners of their mouths barely meet. It’s for Robbie to seal the kiss, but he hasn’t moved yet.

Lance can imagine each possibility with equal clarity: Robbie kissing him, or Robbie gently pushing him away. Again.

Chapter Fourteen

Robbie

Robbie hasn’t ever been in bed with a man—or held one, save the brief embraces of his brothers and a few friends. Holding Lance is nothing like that. It isn’t just that his body is wondrously lean, yet hard and substantial, or the unmistakable strength held in check. His heart has been so open to Lance that the new physical response has an accelerated affect. Resistance seems as futile as trying to snatch back a beam of light or a note of music.

He’s so close to kissing Lance, Robbie realizes in a daze, his hand wrapped around the shape of a lean hip which is frustratingly covered by the thick blanket. He wishes he could touch Lance’s bare skin. Run his hands over him until he’s memorized the texture and heat. He wants to see what was on display a few minutes ago when Lance only wore frayed boxers and one sock. He wants to see the rest of him, and with a desperation that leaves him dazed. He wants things he’s never wanted, like to grasp Lance so hard that Robbie’s fingerprints bloom against his skin.