“Is it helping?” Ángel managed to ask. “I know I’m not— I don’t know how to . . . whatever.” How do you make an emotion-song that would comfort a fae? How long do I have to do this?

“It’s helping,” Oberon said softly.

He stroked a broad palm up and down Ángel’s bare spine, and it was all Ángel could do not to physically squirm.

“I almost think I could sleep,” said Oberon.

“That sounds good. Sleep, and tomorrow eat something.” He started to move.

“Will you stay?” Oberon’s arms tightened. “I am selfish, Ángel. I know it is hard for you. But I am afraid to be alone. Afraid of falling. Will you stay while I sleep?”

“It’s like medicine, right?” Ángel said shakily. “Yes, okay.”

Oberon stood up, lifting Ángel in his arms. Ángel was shocked by how strong the fae was; Ángel was skinny but had never, until now, felt particularly dainty. Oberon carried him effortlessly to the couch and collapsed onto it, lying on his side and tucking Ángel against his chest, belly to belly, wrapping his arms around him. A big hand went into Ángel’s hair, cupping his head. Ángel repressed a whimper.

“All right?”

“Yes,” Ángel whispered.

Oberon sighed deeply and fell heavily asleep, his body pinning Ángel’s to the couch.

Somehow, eventually, Ángel slept too.

He woke up in the morning, after a night of wild and discordant dreams, deeply relaxed and drowning in sensual pleasure.

He was warm. He was being cuddled. His cock was hard and was cradled against something toasty, and his body tingled everywhere in an entirely pleasant way. A smell like gingersnaps and sex filled his nostrils.

Oberon was better.

The envoy had rolled over onto his back, and Ángel was sprawled on his chest, his hair spread on Oberon’s smooth pecs and his dick and balls pressed against the slim thigh that lodged firmly between his legs. Apparently still asleep, Oberon was vibrating—not shivering anymore, but purring. The rolling pulse went through Ángel’s body. It was the noise Oberon sometimes made when he was happy: sustained, barely audible.

Ángel had done it. He’d comforted Oberon, he’d helped keep the grief from building up in his skin and killing him. What his skin was doing to Ángel now was the shivery agony of fae magic that he had felt before yesterday. It was thrilling through Ángel’s belly and chest, which were pressed against Oberon’s bare skin.

Agony was maybe not the right word. Because it was weird and uncomfortable, but shudderingly pleasurable too.