Shane’s hand falters, his breath drawing in quick, startled. “I did that?”
“You’d never come to the place where I work and tell everyone I was a child molester.”
“I didn’t! I—that’s a joke, right? You’re just saying that, right? I think I’d remember.”
“Does that sound like the kind of thing I’d think was funny?” Drake asks quietly, not turning around. “You were angry at me because I told you you weren’t welcome at church. That was after you outed me to them. It took me years to get a good amount of students back, and that was after being questioned by the police and going through every background check known to man.”
He has more, nine years’ worth of Shane drunk, angry, bitter and cruel and far, far too good at humiliating and ruining him, but Shane’s trembling against his back, and hot tears are splashing onto his shoulder. “I…” There’s a ragged sadness to Shane’s voice that he’s never heard before. “I…you can’t possibly….after all that, you can’t possibly want me back. You have to hate me.”
“Wasn’t you.” Drake turns, staying seated, so he can pull Shane up into his lap. “Wasn’t you. Like I said.”
“But—”
“Wasn’t. You.” Drake is as firm as he can kindly be, reinforcing his words with gentle touches. “Would you ever do that stuff?”
“No! Of course—”
“Then obviously it wasn’t you. Are you sore? Did they…did they rape you?”
Shane shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Wasn’t me, right?”
“But your body—”
Shane bites his neck, sharper than usual, enough to make him jump. “Leave it. Don’t you dare treat me like I’m made of broken glass.”
“I heard you shatter. I saw the ice go flying. What the hell happened? I thought…I thought you were dead. All of you, not just the way you sort of were for years.”
Shane’s hands twist in his shirt, not trying to strip it off now, just fisting in it as if it’s a security blanket. For that matter, he tucks himself under Drake’s arm, for all that they’re nearly the same height and he’s no lightweight himself. They make it work. They always have, though cuddling’s always been an awkward affair that takes some doing. “I don’t remember much of those last few moments. I was…I was so angry at him. And then I wasn’t feeling much of anything, and that was what made him angry. I think he wanted me to suffer more. So he gave my soul back right as I turned to ice, so I’d be trapped like that forever.”
“But…you weren’t.” Drake can’t help himself, and he runs his hands all over Shane’s body, making absolutely sure that there’s no hidden pocket of ice, no lurking nasty secret. Shane’s as warm as ever, oddly hot to the touch, the same way he’s been as long as Drake can remember. “You got out. I didn’t think anyone could do that.”
Shane shifts in his lap, sensuous and immediate, grinding his ass down between Drake’s legs. “Yeah, well, I do a lot of crazy things. You still love me, right?”
Drake grabs his hips, intending to hold him still, to keep him focused. It’s not as easy as it sounds when Shane’s arching like that, that gorgeous ass rubbing slowly up and down. “S-stop it. Of course I love you. As long as you don’t make any more stupid deals.”
“I promise.”
“And you start trying to wash the dishes right after they get dirty.”
“Sure, sure.”
“And you don’t vanish to leave me in charge of your plants for nine years.”
He doesn’t need to see Shane’s face to know he’s grinning. “Don’t tell me you kept them alive for all that time.”
“Of course I did! I told you I’d look after them if you died, and—”
“They really don’t live that long, baby. You replaced them with other ones, didn’t you?”
Drake buries his head between Shane’s shoulder blades, tracing the lines of lean muscle with his nose, his lips. “I just thought…if you did ever figure out a way to come back to me, I knew you’d want your plants. That’s all.”
“You never gave up on me, huh?”
“Never.”
“You’re an idiot.”
He’s deflecting and changing the subject so he doesn’t have to explain how he got out of the ice. Or what the Ice King meant when he called him “Child of Flame.” “That’s me,” Drake says wearily, letting go of Shane’s hips and letting him wriggle all he wants. “I’m just a big idiot.”
“My idiot?”
That almost sends Drake over the edge again. Not because he’s Shane’s, of course, but because he’s playful when he’s needy, shy about actually wanting something of value, like a promise, when he’s always been thoroughly convinced he’s not worth anything of the sort, even from Drake. Maybe especially from Drake.
“Yeah. Your idiot.”
Just like you’re mine.
And damned if anyone’s ever going to Shane from him again.
Chapter Eleven
Shane thinks he’s doing a damn good job of holding it together.
It’s not easy when every bit of him wants to tremble, to just break down and collapse on the floor and let Drake pick him up, let Drake carry him home and put him to bed and curl up with him for the foreseeable future. At the same time, he wants to scream, to laugh, to just run around the city naked and feel beautifully, gloriously alive for the first time in years, and no matter how little he remembers, he can’t have properly appreciated the smell of the city, the bracing fresh wind, the feel of the snow between his toes, the—
Okay, he’s freezing.
“Where’s your car?” he mumbles into Drake’s arm, muffled against the smooth cotton of his torn shirt.
“The Soul-Thief tore it up pretty bad. We’ve been taking yours.”
Shane’s fairly certain that he doesn’t own a car, but that’s hardly going to help him now. Besides, the less he can remind Drake of what a soulless bastard he’s been for the last several years, the better. He’s got more than enough to make up for already without adding anything.
“Here. You must be freezing.”
“Drake, what the—you can’t give me your shirt, we’ll look like a pair of goddamn refugees, what are—”
“You can’t just go around naked! Better refugees than arrested!”
It doesn’t take them long to get back to Drake’s place, not even on foot. Then again, it’s possible Shane just doesn’t notice the distance because he’s so unfathomably glad to be back.
Drake opens the door to his apartment, scratching at his hair the way he does when he’s nervous. It’s a familiar habit, something Shane’s pretty sure he’s missed. “Sorry about the mess. I haven’t really had much time lately for cleaning and stuff.”
It’s a pretty exceptional mess. Shane’s lost count of the times he’s teased Drake about it, but right now it doesn’t seem important. It’s not gross, just piles of papers and clothes and books everywhere, and Shane grins. “It looks like the rare librarian-bird tried to make a nest in here.”
“Very funny.”
“Is there still a bed?”
“You’re showering before you get in it. We both are. A lot of people exploded in that hall.”
“I was shielding us,” Shane points out, but he’s far from being angry, not when he’s in a place that is so clearly Drake’s place. Nothing ever makes him feel more at home than being surrounded by Drake.
The shower is tiny, far too small for two people. That turns out to be a blessing a few minutes later, when Shane breaks down sobbing under the hot water, eventually throwing up a magical sound shield to keep Drake from hearing.
Pathetic.
Drake is a good man, one of the best in the world, but surely he has his limits. Sure, it seems like everything’s going to be good again, but it can’t be that easy. Nothing ever is, not for him. Not for them. It’s not possible that after so much stress, so much separation, so much hurt everything could just snap back to normal.
And it’s all his fault.
&nbs
p; Shane’s pretty far out of it by the time Drake comes in, switching off the shower and lifting him easily into his arms. He doesn’t say anything, just towels him dry before getting him into the bedroom, which is thankfully a lot less cluttered than the rest of the apartment.
“G-god,” Shane chokes out, shivering and clutching, “I’m a f-f-fucking mess.”
Drake chuckles. “You have no idea how much I prefer you like this. God, I’ve missed you.”
Shane gives up on dignity for the evening, clinging to his boyfriend with arms and legs, nestling into his neck. “What now?”
“Now?”
“Yeah. I’m not exactly gonna be raking in a paycheck as First Vassal anymore. How attached are you to being Champion?”
“Why do you ask? I don’t mind supporting us on what I make from the studio. I mean, this isn’t exactly a big place, but—”
“You don’t want to go back to hunting? I thought you quit because you didn’t have a partner anymore, but I’ll do whatever you want.”
Drake’s hands are broad and rough down his back, stroking up and down his spine. It’s good, more of a gentle ease back into life than anything Shane’s felt in years, and he arches back into it. “I don’t know. There’s a lot of powerful stuff out there. What if we meet something else we can’t handle? What if I get hurt again? I…I want to be able to trust you not to do anything stupid, but—”
“I won’t. You can trust me. God, do you think there’s anyone who hasn’t learned their lesson more than me?” That starts to bring on the shakes again, so he stops, blinking back more tears. He distracts himself by looking around the room, hunting for any little clues about Drake’s life he’s missed or just can’t remember. “You like teaching kids?”
“Kind of. I like seeing them get better. I like teaching women’s self-defense. Makes me feel like I’m doing some good.”
“You’re a Champion of the Church.”
“Are you implying I don’t need to do anything else good because my ass is karmically covered?”
“No, I’m saying you’ll have to teach a hell of a lot of women how to fight off rapists before you can balance out the damage the Church has done.”
“You’re a dick.”
“You never prayed. Not once that I can remember, and I lived with you for ten years. Then all of a sudden, what, I’m gone and you find God?” That’s what’s bothering him, Shane realizes. No matter what Drake’s title might be, there’s not a single religious item anywhere in the room.
Drake is quiet for a second, in the way that means he’s thinking rather than angry, and Shane gives him time to put his thoughts together. Just because he’s not quick-witted all of the time doesn’t make him stupid, and Shane’s seen too many people find that out the hard way. “I asked them, when they signed me up. I asked if it was okay that I stopped believing years ago.”
“And?”
“And…they said something interesting. They were glad. Because people who take this job see things all the time that make them question their faith. They see people so powerful they could easily fake miracles, and things so evil it’s impossible to imagine that God lets them continue to exist on earth. They get freaked out, and they have existential crises or breakdowns and wind up hesitating at a crucial moment the first time someone claims to be the next coming of Christ.”
Vaguely, Shane thinks he remembers something about a trick he and a couple other Vassals had played on the Church’s prior Champion, back long ago at the beginning of his tenure under the Ice King. Though the memories are hazy, he can sort of remember someone claiming to be Jesus, and he definitely remembers that it was hilarious.
Oops.
“So they prefer atheists?”
“Not exactly. They said…they said it didn’t matter whether I believed or not, as long as I lived every day exactly as I would if I were certain there was a God.”
Drake looks all set to explain himself further, but Shane nods. “Makes sense. Cool. So, you want to stay on there?”
“I do good work. I protect people from evil.”
“You sap.” Shane wriggles in his arms, turning to mouth wet kisses down Drake’s neck, his chest, down to his stomach. “Knight in shining denim, huh?”
“Would you prefer I take them off?”
“Yep.” Crying fit over, Shane’s fingers run along the waistband of those worn denim jeans, his lips ghosting over the muscles of Drake’s abdomen. “You got fat.”
“Did not!”
“Cute fat. You used to have a six-pack.”
“I still—”
“Oh, it’s still there, but now you’re all soft and squishy on top of it.” Shane pinches his stomach, then gasps as Drake grabs his hair. “Oh, sensitive, are we?”
“Not all of us had an unnatural deal with the devil to keep us young and perfect,” Drake grumbles, glaring down at him. “Metabolism’s a bitch after thirty.”
“God, you’re so old.” Shane drags down his zipper, nimbly unfastening the button and stripping off every bit of clothing. “You sure you can still keep up with me? Like you said, I didn’t get old and fat.”
“Call me fat again,” Drake warns, a hint of challenge in his voice that gets Shane harder than almost anything.
“Why, you horny to smack me around? You miss that, baby?” Shane tosses the towel onto the floor with Drake’s jeans, moving up to straddle his, slowly rubbing his hardening cock against Drake’s stomach. “Because I sure as hell did.”
It’s difficult for Shane to qualify why he finds that guilt, that hesitation, that shame on Drake’s face to be so fucking cute. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile,” he reminds the other man, grinding slowly downward, feeling Drake’s thick cock get harder under his ass. “F-fuck, I’m not that delicate, no one else treats me like I’m breakable.”
“I’m not anyone else.” There’s something intense and worried in Drake’s eyes, enough that it almost makes Shane stop rubbing his ass down against him.
Well, almost.
“I’m in love with you. That’s supposed to mean I take care of you.”
“You do. Stop being an idiot and fuck me, it’s been goddamn years.”
It hasn’t, not really. He sort of remembers that he’s had Drake several times in the last nine years, though not on any sort of regular schedule. He’s pretty sure Drake tried to make it work when he first lost his soul, and even after he left had consented to the occasional drunken fuck against the wall. Hell, he’s fairly certain that he’s been fucked by Drake a few times just in the last couple days.
“You should have a bruise here,” Drake murmurs, stroking over his hip. “I gave it to you in the alley.”
“Sorry. Healed it in the shower. I wasn’t sure what was from who and I didn’t want anyone else’s marks on me.”
He realizes the second after the words leave his mouth what a mistake that is to say. “Um…I mean…”
“You can heal bruises?” Drake demands, hands suddenly tight around his waist, sitting up. “All this time, you’ve been able to heal bruises, cuts, little shit like that? You said you could only do the big stuff!”
Shane chews on his bottom lip, wriggling guiltily against Drake’s hands. Not how he planned to get him riled up, but it’s working. “Well, I like having them from you. I was afraid you’d make me get rid of them if you knew I could.”
He’s on his back in a second, then flipped around to his hands and knees. “Maybe I should give you a whole new set, huh?”
Shane wiggles his ass, grinning down at the pillows. “Yes please.”
Drake isn’t gentle. He rarely is, especially when he’s really horny, really angry, and Shane loves it. He knows how difficult it is to get Drake to lose control, and revels in being the one that it’s easy for. Every smack of Drake’s hand gets him harder, every forming bruise only making him writhe back, panting, “Fuck me, fuck me, please, baby, fuck me.”
“Whore. You get off on me hurting you.”
“W
hat was your first fucking clue, Sherlock?”
He cries out at the next slap to his ass, a little too low, reddening his upper thigh in what’s probably going to be a pretty impressive hand-print.
“I think you should stop talking so dirty and get your mouth down on my cock,” Drake breathes in his ear, and Shane shakes his head.
“Can’t. Please, just fuck me, I’ll suck you off after, I need it, please.”
Drake nips at his earlobe, dragging big fingers up to spread his ass apart. “You worried you’re gonna come while you’re sucking me off?”
Shane nods, not bothering to deny it.
He has no idea when Drake managed to grab the lube, or even where he keeps it these days. All he manages is to be relieved when a couple slick fingers trace over his hole, then push inside.
Shane lets out a long, keening moan, collapsing forward to bury his face onto his forearms. “F-fuck.”
“Can you take more?”
“Fuck yes I can take more, give me your fucking cock!”
Drake’s hand cracks down hard over his ass again, and all of Shane’s breath leaves him in a yelp. “Quiet. The walls here are thinner than our old place.”
“Then we’re fucking moving tomorrow!”
Drake slides in a third finger, and Shane’s thighs start trembling. Just because he’s taken more doesn’t mean it isn’t thick, doesn’t fill him with that delicious spreading ache that runs up his spine and makes him pant, makes him whine.
“You gonna come?”
Shane nods, no breath left to do anything else, his cock painfully hard and dripping onto the sheets.
Drake pulls out his fingers, and Shane swears violently, creatively, in three or four languages. “Fuck you! Put them back in or I’ll fucking kill you!”
Drake flips him over again onto his back and backhands him across the face. The pain is sharp and immediate, and does less than nothing to ease his erection. Drake had joked once that he could make Shane come just by slapping him around long enough, though every attempt to prove or disprove his words has always ended with them forgetting the point and fucking past the point of exhaustion.
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