Oberon scratched the center of his chest, drowsy. “Of course,” he added, “I am getting older. Usually by my age, someone like me would have settled in with a single lover. Or sometimes two. Someone permanent. Someone who . . .” He yawned. His voice was deepening toward sleep. “Someone whose magic would suit mine so perfectly, give me so much joy, that they’d change me. And I would give them joy and change them, and over the years we would grow together and become attuned, and suited for no other . . .”

Itchy and trapped and miserable, Ángel stared out the window.

Oberon’s eyes snapped open. “Ángel? What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“No, no. It is too late for that, beloved,” said Oberon, rolling over onto his stomach, resting his head on a propped-up fist. “I know you too well now.”

Ángel wrapped his arms around his knees, curling in on himself like an armadillo. He was being ungrateful and wrong and stubborn. He was supposed to be happy. He was having great sex with a good friend who was amazing, who liked him and needed him, and he had no reason not to be happy. If anyone should be dejected and grouchy, it should be Oberon. He was the one who had lost everything, who was making do with a substitute for what he really needed.

“Why do you call me ‘beloved’?”

Oberon gazed at him. “You know the meaning of the word.”

“I call you ‘baby,’ but you aren’t one.”

“You have been undervalued by many. But not by me.”

What was that? Evasion? Distraction? “You have to value me,” said Ángel. “You don’t have anyone else. I can’t harmonize with you. I can’t do anything with you except get you off. I’m sorry,” he added. “I am not trying to be a jerk. Or to make you change. I love how it is with us. I don’t want to stop. I just want to be clear.”

In spite of the conciliatory words, he could hear the sadness in his own voice.

Oberon rested his chin on his folded arms. His eyes glowed. “This . . . is not the kind of conversation my species has to have. You should be able to feel my feelings in the air.”

“I can,” said Ángel, smiling through his sadness. “It’s sort of like baking bread.”

Oberon held out his hand, palm up. “And when you touch me?”

Ángel shook his head, still hugging himself.

“I am clumsy,” said Oberon, dropping his hand. “But I, too, want to be clear. I do not have to value you, but I do. I have been alone for a long time, but my judgment is not impaired. I see you.”

Ángel looked away.

“You are . . . you are harmonizing with me. I feel the magic in your skin, and your skin feels mine. Your magic is different, your taste and smell are different, but we are learning. I am learning you.”