Page 67 of Until You Break
I pressed his hand against my chest, made him feel my heartbeat under it. “You hear this? That’s your louder now. Every time the dark grows, you take it from me. You don’t bleed to make noise. You press here.”
I shifted, pulling him deeper into my lap until his back lay to my chest, his knees hooked outside my thighs, my arms locking him there. He sagged, exhaustion and relief mixing until he stopped holding himself up.
“You’ll never float alone again,” I told him, voice low against his ear. “I anchor you.”
For a while we just breathed in the same rhythm, steam closing the world to water and pulse. His head dropped back to my shoulder. My lips found the damp curl at his temple.
“I wanted light,” he murmured, fragile. “To paint it. To catch the way it bends. I thought if I had a gallery, maybe I could build a place where silence didn’t eat me.”
“You’ll have it,” I vowed. “One day you’ll show me every painting. Even the ones you’re afraid of. Especially those. I’ll guard the walls you hang them on.”
His laugh was soft and broken at once. “You promise everything too easily.”
“Not easily,” I corrected. “Only when I mean it.”
We stayed like that until the water cooled at the edges. Then I rose, pulled him with me. Linen waited. I wrapped him in it, pressed heat into his scars with my palms until he shook less. Drops slid down his chest, down the cuts of his stomach. I kissed one trail away, slow, until he groaned and flushed scarlet. “So handsome,” I murmured, voice low against his skin. “So sweet. Braver every time you let me touch what you once hid.Tell me about her.” I dried him slower than I needed to. “Your mother. Give me one thing she loved.”
His throat flexed. “She used to laugh at bad radio jingles. Said they were poetry for people who couldn’t stand still.” Hiseyes watered. “I can’t remember the sound anymore. Just the shape of her mouth when she did it.”
I pressed a kiss to his temple. “Then you’ll paint it. And I’ll keep it safe until you can hear it again.”
“You fit against me like weight I was built to bear,” I murmured, lifting him clear of the bath. He didn’t fight it. His arms locked around my shoulders, his face hidden in my throat.
“Bossy,” he muttered.
“Savior,” I corrected, pleased.
I carried him across the room, slow, deliberate, the scent of eucalyptus and him wrapping me whole. When I set him on the bed he looked small under the towel, skin still flushed from heat and hands. I followed with my weight, drew the duvet over us, and pulled him back into my chest.
His breath eased into mine, but I lingered awake, thumb stroking his throat. “One day,” I said low, more to the dark than to him, “I’ll walk through your gallery and know every wall is yours. No more hiding. No more silence.”
His fingers curled tight into my arm, wordless, but the promise landed anyway.
Rain ribbed the glass and the city pretended to sleep. He pressed damp against me, towel slipping, my arm locked around his ribs, his pulse steady under my thumb. His back fitted to my chest, his ass brushing my cock even soft. I let him feel the weight of it, heavy against the curve of him, promise more than act.
“You think this ends when the lights go out?” I asked into his hair. “It doesn’t. You’ll sleep under my hand or not at all. Every twitch in your dreams, every breath you steal, I’ll be here to decide if it gets faster or slower.”
He made a soft, broken sound, part fear, part relief. “Stay,” he whispered.
“Always,” I answered, and pressed my mouth into his hair until his breathing matched mine.
Rain still ribbed the glass, but inside the room the world slowed. The towel slipped away beneath the duvet, heat settling between us. His spine curved into me, my palm anchored at his waist, my cock a quiet weight against him. Breath by breath, the tension bled out of both of us until only the rhythm remained, two heartbeats, steady, almost sleep.
“Damiano?” he asked, voice small in the dark.
“Mn.”
“Does it… get any better? The grief.”
I let the silence answer first, the weight of the ceiling above us. Then I spoke into his hair. “It hurt like this. Then less. Some nights it comes back worse. But it does get better. It never leaves, but it gets easier to carry.”
He swallowed, pressed his face deeper into my arm. “I hope so.”
My hand slid lower across his stomach, holding him tighter. “With me, it will.”
His silence stretched, then, “I miss her laugh. Mamma’s. I can’t hear it anymore. Just the shape of her mouth when she smiled.”
I kissed the damp curl at his nape. “Then we’ll remember them together. Your mother’s laugh, my father’s voice. We carry them until it hurts less.”
