Ángel startled, going rigid in Oberon’s arms. He turned slowly to glare at Mendel, who was sitting in a chair near the bed.

He had completely forgotten about the second envoy, had not imagined that he was still in the room.

“This is not,” Ángel said, “a pity fuck.”

He felt, rather than heard, Oberon gasp for breath.

“You didn’t come back until you heard he was dying,” said Mendel. “You want to comfort him.”

Mendel’s face and voice were all innocence, but his words cut.

“How about you,” snarled Ángel, furious, “go the fuck away and leave us alone?”

“Oh,” said Mendel. “I would rather stay.”

Ángel opened his mouth to tell Mendel what he could do, and Oberon squeezed him. “Your anger,” he murmured. “I’d forgotten.” To Mendel he said, “I think the phrase is offensive.”

“‘Pity fuck’?” asked Mendel. “But if he is having sex with you because he feels sorry for you—”

“Get out,” said Ángel, attempting to struggle free of Oberon’s clasp, “before I break your fucking face.”

“Privacy,” Oberon said to Mendel, hanging on to Ángel. “Do you remember? You learned about privacy.”

“Yes,” said Mendel. “I know. But there’s no one else here, and I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’ll have to get used to it,” said Oberon. “Go on.” Mendel made a meow of acquiescence and left the room.

“Close the door!” yelled Ángel.

Mendel closed the door.

Ángel flopped back on the bed, panting, torn between laughing and punching something. Oberon lay beside him quietly. They just breathed for a while. Then Oberon began to smell like rain, and he slowly drooped his head and rested his forehead on the center of Ángel’s chest.

Ángel felt his sorrow.

“No,” he said. “No. Don’t think that.”

“You didn’t come back until you heard I was sick,” said Oberon.

“They told me you didn’t want to see me.”

“You believed them?”

“So did you,” said Ángel.

“Because you never believed in my love,” said Oberon. “You didn’t believe in me. You only wanted to get away from me—”

“Shh, no,” said Ángel, wrapping his arms around Oberon’s shoulders. “Don’t, please.” He held him, his cheek against the top of Oberon’s head. “Can you feel me?”

He closed his eyes and called to mind the moment he fell in love with Oberon: the music room. The swan chair. Guitar and mandolin. Ángel’s sad melody, and Oberon: harmony, consonance, a perfect musical melding, a moment of perfect emotional understanding. And then Oberon had deepened the song, transformed it, infused it with hope—sweet, impossible, fragile hope. Ángel remembered, and the memory took his breath away, filled him with awe and admiration and helpless love.

True love, for this strange and singular individual. Impossible love, undeniable, unworkable, but powerful and aching and true. Ángel knew he’d feel this way forever.

Oberon shivered.