Chapter 9 #3
He pulls a reading chair away from the nearest table and sits down. The chair is old and deep-seated, the kind designed for scholars to spend hours in. Vale settles into it, legs apart, and looks up at August.
"Come here," he says.
August stares at him. His hand is still pressed to his chest, his breathing carefully measured, and Vale can see the internal war playing out behind his eyes: the pride, the self-preservation, the refusal to need anyone, all fighting against the simple, devastating fact that he's in pain and Vale can make it stop.
August comes to him.
He steps between Vale's knees, close enough that his legs press against the inside of Vale's thighs, and Vale has to lock down every nerve in his body because this position, in this low light, in this silence, is doing things to his composure that have nothing to do with healing.
August is looking down at him with those storm-grey eyes, uncertain and wanting and trying so hard not to show either.
Vale slides his hands beneath the hem of August's sweater.
His palms find the skin at August's hips, and the cold of it shocks through him. His magic doesn't care about the cold; it pours from his palms in a rush, eager and warm, and the skin beneath his hands responds immediately. Warms. Softens. The fine trembling in August's frame stutters.
August makes a sound.
It's barely audible, a sharp, caught inhale, bitten off before it can become anything more, but in the library's absolute silence it's deafening.
His hands come up and grip Vale's shoulders, fingers digging in, and his whole body goes rigid for one suspended heartbeat before he exhales.
Long and shuddering and uneven. And the rigidity dissolves into something boneless.
Vale's thumbs trace slow circles against August's hipbones, the corruption retreating under his touch in real time.
He can feel the veins beneath his palms, raised, textured, warm as they fade, and he maps them with his fingers the way he's been wanting to for days.
The skin of August's stomach is smooth and cool and responsive, and when Vale's hands spread wider, pressing warmth into the plane of his abdomen, August's breath hitches so sharply that his fingers spasm on Vale's shoulders.
"Okay?" Vale asks, and his own voice has dropped to something lower.
"Keep going." August's voice is barely a whisper.
His head has tipped forward, chin dropping toward his chest, and his breathing has gone slow and deep and shivery, the rhythm of someone experiencing the absence of pain after so long that relief has become its own kind of overwhelm. "Please don't stop."
Vale doesn't stop.
He works his hands higher beneath the sweater, palms flat, chasing the corruption upward across August's ribs.
He can feel the origin point now, the dense cluster of darkness on August's sternum that he'd felt through the clavicle before but never been able to reach.
It pulses under his approaching hands, and August shudders when Vale's fingers brush its edge.
"This is where it starts," Vale murmurs.
"The first place it manifested." August's voice is strained, his grip on Vale's shoulders white-knuckled. "When I was fifteen. A spot the size of a coin. It's been growing ever since."
Vale spreads both hands flat against August's sternum, directly over the corruption's heart.
The cold there is intense, not the ambient chill of death-touched skin but something deeper, more concentrated, the epicenter of fourteen years of accumulated damage.
His magic surges against it, pouring heat into the frozen core, and August's knees buckle.
Vale catches him. Pulls him forward, down, until August is half-collapsed against him in the chair, one knee braced on the seat beside Vale's thigh, the other leg still supporting him, his chest pressed against Vale's hands between them.
August is practically in his lap, his face tucked against Vale's neck, his breathing ragged and broken against Vale's skin, and every sound he makes, every hitched inhale, every shuddering exhale, every soft, involuntary noise that he can't quite contain, is systematically destroying Vale's ability to think clearly.
The corruption retreats from his sternum.
Slowly. Stubbornly. It doesn't yield the way the peripheral veins do; this is the source, the root, and it fights back.
But Vale's magic is relentless, and he holds his ground, palms flat against August's chest, pouring warmth into the frozen place until the ice begins to crack.
"Vale." August's voice is muffled against his neck, barely coherent. "You're going to break me."
Vale's hands still. "What?"
A silence. Long enough that Vale's pulse kicks into something faster.
"Nothing." August pulls back. Not far, just enough to breathe, just enough to look at Vale with eyes that are luminous and wet and holding something so vulnerable that it takes Vale's breath. "Forget I said anything."
"August—"
"We should keep looking." August stands, pulling away from Vale's hands with a visible effort of will, and the loss of contact is immediate, cold rushing into the space where warmth had been, the corruption pausing in its retreat and holding position. "We still need to prepare for tomorrow."
He moves toward the shelves with a careful, studied casualness that doesn't fool Vale for a second. Something just happened, some threshold crossed, some vulnerability exposed and immediately walled off, and Vale doesn't know whether to push or let it go.
He lets it go. For now.
You're going to break me. The words settle into Vale's chest, and he knows they're going to burn there for a long time.