The dream still in his mind, he said, “Oberon, do you remember how you were afraid to kiss me? Because kisses are important to my people, you said. All our stories about magical kisses that transform beasts to men and heal sleeping princesses. Remember?” He cupped Oberon’s face, stroking his dry lips with his thumb. “This is one of those magic kisses,” he whispered. “This kiss will wake you up, and heal you, and bring you back to life, if you’ll let it.” And he pressed his mouth to Oberon’s.

Oberon shuddered violently. Then with a spasmodic lurch he wrapped his arms around Ángel, clasping him, opening his mouth and returning the kiss. They both moaned—Ángel felt like he was being injected with Oberon’s illness—but at the same time he felt a desperate hope, that as he took Oberon’s emotions into himself, he somehow eased Oberon’s agony.

Oberon was speaking now, a fluid melodic stream of incomprehensible syllables, hands in Ángel’s hair, gripping him tight enough to drive the air from his lungs. After a moment, he regained enough control to switch to English: “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me—”

“Oberon,” gasped Ángel. “Shhh, baby. It’s okay.”

“Ah, I am sorry,” cried Oberon softly, against Ángel’s neck. “I am sorry, but I want to live—”

“Yes. Live. Live.”

They clutched each other, murmuring pleas and reassurances, Oberon’s hands roaming roughly all over Ángel while Ángel cradled him.

“You’re going to be okay now?”

“Ángel—”

“You’ll get better now, yeah?”

“Don’t leave me again—”

“No, no, no. I never left you.” He caught Oberon’s face in his hands, threading his fingers into Oberon’s hair, made him look into his eyes. “They took me from you, and I couldn’t get back. And you do not get to die if something like that happens, Oberon. You have to stay alive until I can get back.”

“I wanted to. But it was hard.”

Oberon’s skin, still grayish, had gone dappled with lust. While Ángel was grappling with surprise, Oberon slid his hands down Ángel’s body, pushing them into his pants to palm his butt. Ángel gulped in air as Oberon sucked on his throat and pressed his legs apart with a thigh. The movements were blatantly sexual, but the magic coursing through Oberon’s skin continued to speak of wrongness. Fear and desperation, mixed with the desire. Ángel squirmed, caught between arousal and discomfort.

“Baby—you don’t—”

“You still want me?” Oberon growled, his breath hot in Ángel’s ear, his hands kneading the cheeks of Ángel’s ass, making Ángel’s hardening dick rub rhythmically against Oberon’s thigh.

“Ah, yeah,” Ángel moaned, needing to surrender to Oberon’s need, his legs falling open.

“Is this what’s called a pity fuck?” asked Mendel.