He stood up and crossed around the desk to Oberon. “Put your arms down at your sides,” he said, brusque with nerves. Oberon unfolded his arms and rested them on the arms of his chair, his head back, throat open and vulnerable.

“Keep your eyes closed.” Ángel couldn’t control the tremor in his voice. “Don’t look.”

He unbuttoned Oberon’s black shirt and pushed it open, exposing his lean chest. “Don’t look at me,” he repeated, reaching over his own head to grab his shirt, pulling it off and dropping it to the floor. He climbed into Oberon’s lap, legs over the arm of the chair, wrapped his arms around Oberon’s shoulders, and pressed his naked torso flush against Oberon’s, chest to belly.

Oberon shuddered violently.

Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God. It was like hugging an electric fence. Ángel squeezed his eyes shut against all that frightening skin touching his. His throat tightened as alien sensations flooded into him through the contact. The emotions were Oberon’s—he could tell they were not his own—but he still felt them: a sharp knife-point of grief in his heart, pain that made him gasp; and a bigger, yawning emptiness, like a cold and vast sea. He bit his lip, swallowing a throat suddenly aching with sorrow. Tears of discomfort leaked out of his clenched eyelids.

After a second’s hesitation, Oberon’s arms wrapped tightly around Ángel’s body; he pushed his face into the crook of Ángel’s neck and shoulder, hugged him so hard that he forced the breath out of Ángel’s lungs. He shivered and shivered in uncontrollable spasmodic bursts. His breath heaved. Ángel gritted his own teeth, concentrating on Oberon’s distress. The sour smell of his body filled Ángel’s nostrils; his grief continued to flood into him.

“Shh, baby,” whispered Ángel, running a hand inside Oberon’s shirt collar and rubbing the bare skin of his shoulders, ignoring the tears that were streaming down his own face. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” His other hand stroked Oberon’s hair.

Oh, Oberon’s hair was so soft. Straight, cool, silky threads that slipped between his fingers. He’d always wanted to touch it. He turned his face and wept silently into that corn silk hair.

How long they sat entwined like that, Ángel didn’t know. It seemed to take a long time—hours, maybe—before Oberon’s convulsive shivering quieted, his gulping breaths calmed. The nature of the emotions filling Ángel’s chest seemed to change, became something softer and sweeter, something he didn’t have words for. Still strange, and uncomfortable, but different.

“What was her name?” asked Ángel.

Oberon sang the name. Seven syllables, lovely. He rocked slightly, cradling Ángel, and sang the name, again and again.

After a while, he stopped rocking and fell quiet, relaxing against Ángel.