Magic happened when musicians played together, when their different personalities and talents and skills merged in one piece, and they made each other unexpectedly better, more, than they could be alone. He had never experienced it so strongly before—never before reached such a perfect musical communion, never been elevated so high by another player.

There was really only one thing to do with this feeling in his heart. One place for it to go.

He opened his eyes and faced Oberon, knowing that Oberon could feel how moved he was.

But Oberon was still. Perhaps he wasn’t able to interpret Ángel’s expression, his signals. Perhaps Ángel needed to be more clear.

He put his guitar aside. He left the swan chair and knelt on the carpet next to Oberon, close enough to feel the warmth of his body without touching him. He kept his eyes on the cushions of the turquoise chair, but breathed Oberon’s air, smelled his butterscotch-pepper-rain smell.

It was good, then. Oberon liked it too.

“Thank you,” Ángel said. “That was amazing.”

Oberon touched Ángel’s hair, wrapped a tress around one finger. He didn’t say anything, but Ángel could feel the vibration in the air between them.

“I’ve never heard you play before,” said Ángel. “All these instruments. Can you play them all?”

“Yes,” Oberon said. “I used to play them all, before you came. I like the piano best. Another of the projects I’ve wanted to complete is to transcribe some of the Otherworld music to piano. There’s a musicologist at Columbia who wants to teach a class in it.”

“Why did you stop?” asked Ángel, keeping his eyes on the blue cushions, enjoying the smell of Oberon and the sound of his voice.

“I thought it might irritate you to listen to me trying to adapt Otherworld music to Earth instruments,” Oberon said. “I think it sounds a little strange to human ears.”

“You’ve been listening to me torture the mandolin for weeks.”

The vibration coming from Oberon intensified: probably amusement. “I have sometimes muted your mandolin practice,” he admitted, gently tugging Ángel’s hair.

Ángel smiled. “I wouldn’t mind it, Oberon. You shouldn’t stop playing for me. Shouldn’t stop doing anything you like, because you’re worried about me.”

He closed his eyes and crossed his arms on the chair by Oberon’s side, resting his cheek on his arm. Oberon’s smell was shifting, the scent of spice emerging, the musky undertones. Ángel suspected those smells meant sex, associated them with the touch of Oberon’s hand. His heartbeat picked up. But he didn’t move.

“You’re still fighting with yourself, Ángel.” Oberon tugged Ángel’s hair again.

Yeah, but I’m losing.

“It’s because I’m a monster,” murmured Oberon regretfully. He gave Ángel’s hair a last quick pull and released him.

Ángel’s eyes flew open. “You’re not a monster!”