Starcrossed

by Allie Therin

  * * *

  “Good evening, Mr. Kenzie.”

  The doorman held the door open wider for Arthur, who was carrying Rory’s regular coat over his arm. The doorman’s gaze darted to Rory, a half step behind, and Arthur tried not to feel sick.

  Not at how Rory looked, never that. Besides, Rory looked good. The coat was too big, but it was meant to look that way, and when Rory wasn’t hunching, he wasn’t nearly as short as he normally seemed. He was standing tall as he could now, Arthur’s fedora pulled low and covering his curls, and his glasses were tucked in the pocket of his coat. He was tailing a little too close to Arthur—probably because the poor man couldn’t see—but not close enough to seem strange to a doorman.

  Rory looked like a different person; had transformed himself not because he wanted to, but to better blend into Arthur’s world.

  And that made Arthur feel sick.

  The doorman’s gaze swept over the raccoon coat and hat and then right back to Arthur without a beat. “Your trunk was delivered,” the doorman went on, “and your mail is in your apartment—”

  “Thank you,” Arthur said, just a hair more impatient than usual. “This way, Mr.—ah—Westbrook.”

  He stumbled on the name. It had been Rory’s suggestion, to use his father’s name, but it felt wrong too.

  As soon as they were in the elevator and the doors had shut, Arthur slouched against the wall. “I can’t believe I made you wear a disguise just to visit me.”

  Rory jammed his glasses on his face. “Did it work?”

  “Doorman didn’t look at you twice. If the clothes are expensive enough, most people I know are happy to ignore everything else.”

  Rory touched the fedora. “I’d do a lot more than hide to be with you.”

  “You shouldn’t have to.” Arthur made a face. “And I hate your father’s name. Let’s not even acknowledge that wretched excuse for a parent exists.”

  Rory shrugged, and that made Arthur’s chest burn, that he was so accustomed to having no decent father that he wasn’t even angry about it. “Not like a building like this is full of people with names like Brodigan or Giovacchini. What else was I supposed to use?”

  “Kenzie,” Arthur said, before he’d thought it through.

  Rory’s eyebrows went up.

  “Ah.” Arthur scrambled for words. “We could pass you off as my nephew again. It works for Mrs. Brodigan and you don’t have an ounce of Irish heritage.”

  Rory snorted. “I’m not calling you Uncle Arthur.”

  Despite his lingering guilt, the corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked up. “Zio Ace?”

  Rory’s expression softened with vulnerable surprise. “How d’you know that word?”

  “You used it once, for your great-uncle.”

  Rory’s surprise was becoming a heart-stopping smile. “And you’re, what? Learning Italian words now?”

  “I know at least five. That’s more French than I mastered my entire time in Paris.” Arthur added, a little awkwardly, “I’m unfortunately hopeless at languages. But I like yours.”

  “Yeah?” Rory stepped into Arthur’s personal space as the elevator slowed, his smile now a grin. “Well, tough shit,” he said, head tilted back so he could peer up from under the brim of Arthur’s fedora. “Still not calling you uncle. Or daddy.”

  “Sure, baby,” Arthur said in a low voice, as the elevator stopped on four, and a rare flush darkened Rory’s cheeks.

  They both moved faster than normal down the hall, and as soon as Arthur had the door opening, Rory was darting under his arm. He turned to grab Arthur by the wrist, urgently tugging him into the foyer and down to his lips. “Come on, come here.”

  Arthur kicked the door shut behind them. He tossed Rory’s coat on the closest surface, then knocked the fedora off Rory’s head and dove in for a deep kiss, fingers weaving into overgrown curls.

  “No one else here,” he whispered, backing Rory toward the wall. He shoved at the raccoon coat and Rory eagerly freed himself from it. “No family. No staff.”

  “No monks.” Rory’s hands slid into Arthur’s suit jacket, tracing his stomach and chest over the vest and fitted dress shirt. Fingers came up to tug at his bow tie several times then gave up, slipping across Arthur’s shoulders under the jacket. “No suspenders?”

  “My tailor prefers belts.” Arthur moved his hands down Rory’s body, hitching him higher on the wall and pushing his thigh between his legs.

  Rory made a desperate noise. Arthur could have sworn he felt a breeze, and then behind them something shattered, but his foyer was full of trinkets his parents’ designer had picked out and Arthur didn’t care about any of it as much as he cared about getting Rory to make that noise again.

  Fingers twisted urgently around Arthur’s lapels, but the form-fitting jacket wasn’t coming off unless he removed his arms from around Rory, and that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Rory muttered something in Italian, a curse maybe, against Arthur’s mouth, and abandoned the jacket. His hands went to Arthur’s belt, tracing the buckle in an exploratory way, and it was Arthur’s turn to swear. He lifted Rory even higher and Rory scrambled to grab his shoulders, his arms, and then up to the back of his head. Arthur moved his kisses to Rory’s neck and there it was, another desperate groan that made Arthur’s blood sing.

  “Arthur.” Rory arched his back against the wall, pushing their bodies closer together. His fingers pulled at Arthur’s hair, probably harder than he meant to, and Arthur felt it in every nerve. “I need—Ace—”

  Arthur trailed kisses over his neck. He’d barely touched his drink but he felt half-drunk now, light-headed and consumed by his senses. Rory still smelled of snow and the faint trace of the monastery, the scent of old books and incense and wood, reminding Arthur of what he’d almost lost to the Hudson River and making him tighten his grip to hold on to him now.

  Rory’s clothes were loose enough for Arthur’s hands to find their way to heated skin, muscles vibrating under his touch like a cork in a shaken champagne bottle. He rucked Rory’s shirt up to his ribs, starved for the feel of Rory’s skin as much as the taste. One suspender popped free as his fingers traced over Rory’s stomach, over his hips, then he slid his hands into the back of his trousers to pull Rory as close as he could against him just as Arthur’s teeth grazed his neck beneath his ear.

  Rory gasped, his body futilely trying to arch farther into Arthur except Arthur hadn’t given him an inch of space to do it. His eyes rolled back and his hands gripped Arthur’s hair painfully tight as he shuddered in Arthur’s arms and—

  And Arthur might have forgotten what it was like to be twenty.

  * * *

  Rory panted, flushed and glowing and humiliated. “Aw geez, I’m sorry—”

  But Arthur’s lips were on his. “No apologies,” he whispered. “You can’t do anything wrong with me.”

  “But I—well, y’know—and I think I broke something—”

  “You are the only thing in this flat that matters to me.”

  Rory relaxed in a rush, his knees going weak, his breath still coming too hard as they slid down against the wall together. He sat on the floor, glasses crooked and clothes rumpled, Arthur kneeling between his legs in his perfect three-piece suit.

  Rory reached out to touch his jaw, scratchy with black shadow. “Bellissimo,” he said softly. “I’m hopeless for you.”

  “You’re fine, darling.” Arthur didn’t look upset at all. “There’s no wrong way to do it.”

  “Yeah, there is,” Rory said, before he could stop himself. “I didn’t even get your tie off.”

  The corner of Arthur’s lips turned up and he leaned in for another kiss. “Next time, you’ll just have to work faster—”

  “I tried.”

  Arthur pulled back, brow furrowed. Rory’s face flushed uncomfortably and he looked away. “I tried,” he said
again, defenses down and tongue loose in the afterglow. “Your clothes are too complicated. You’ve got so many accessories, and I’ve only ever worn suspenders...”

  Arthur blinked, and Rory tensed, ready to be ridiculed.

  But then Arthur said, “Oh,” soft and simple. “Of course. You’re absolutely right.”

  Rory glanced uncertainly at him. “I am?”

  “Certainly.” Arthur gestured at himself. “Jacket, vest, shirt, bow tie—why on earth am I wearing so many things?”

  Arthur’s smile was rueful and soft and not mocking in the least. He wasn’t making fun. Warmth blossomed in Rory’s chest. “It’s same as all the high hats wear.”

  “But the upper class is, admittedly, absurd. And then my tailor goes and styles everything fiendishly tight—”

  “Whoa whoa whoa.” Rory wrapped a territorial hand over Arthur’s bicep. “I’m not grouching about that.”

  Arthur’s smile became a grin. “No?”

  Rory ran his palm over the iron muscles under Arthur’s jacket. “No other fella in New York’s half as fine as you in a suit. But you could wear a potato sack and still look like you stepped outta my best dream.”

  “Oh, how dare you.” Arthur bent, put his shoulder against Rory’s stomach, and suddenly stood, picking Rory up with him.

  Rory let out a half yelp, half laugh as the world flipped upside down. “Ace, put me down!” he demanded, as Arthur strode down the hall.

  “You should watch who you’re complimenting with that mouth.”

  “Arthur!”

  A moment later, Arthur tossed him down on the bed, making Rory laugh again. Arthur slid the suit jacket from his shoulders in one easy move and then was on the bed with him, on all fours over him in his shirtsleeves, vest, and bow tie. “When exactly did I agree you could be this cute?” he said, lowering his body to cover Rory. “In fact, I distinctly recall telling you to stick to go to hell so I wouldn’t end up completely owned.”

  Arthur was built like a big six and Rory should have felt squashed but it was perfect, just comforting weight on top of him. Arthur had to have been aching for it but he wasn’t moving for more, instead lazily pressing his lips to Rory’s like he had all the time in the world for just kisses. Rory shivered and let his eyes close, soaking it in.

  Arthur gently pulled off his glasses and set them to the side. “What, no sassy comeback?”

  “Not with you on me like this,” Rory admitted.

  “How sweet,” Arthur said, low and warm. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed since you fell asleep on my lap on the way home after Coney Island—”

  He paused.

  Then he suddenly went in for a deep kiss, tongue slipping into Rory’s mouth, cupping Rory’s head and weaving curls between his fingers.

  Rory melted, soft and unresisting, enjoying the hand in his hair and the gentle rasp of prickly stubble against his own lips and skin. Distantly, he felt Arthur’s fingers trace the side of his face, over his jaw for a moment before sliding on, across Rory’s shoulder, down his arm to his hand.

  Arthur shifted forward and kissed him more demandingly as he tangled their fingers together, scattering the last of Rory’s brain into space, until nothing mattered but the taste of Arthur’s lips and tongue—

  There was a tug on Rory’s finger.

  And then Arthur broke the kiss. “There we go.”

  Rory blinked. Right in front of his face, close enough to see without his glasses, Arthur was now holding the Tempest Ring.

  Rory’s eyes widened as he grabbed his left hand with his right and felt his now-bare ring finger. “You got it off!”

  “Yes I did.” Arthur sounded pleased with himself.

  “But how? How’d you know you could do it?”

  “I didn’t,” Arthur admitted. “But the ring’s been reacting to your emotions, and it’s not been an easy few days for you, has it? A night in a monastery, tension between us, hearing about my—”

  Rory raised his eyebrows.

  “—my old friend,” Arthur corrected hastily. “At any rate, I remembered the ring came off without issue when you were knackered after Coney Island, and seeing you like this in my bed, finally calm and relaxed again, I thought maybe I could try.” He hesitated. “I thought I understood that you wanted it off, but if I overstepped—”

  Rory launched himself up and threw his arms around his neck, drawing a surprised and happy mmph from Arthur as Rory knocked him down on his back onto the other side of the mattress.

  “You’re amazing,” said Rory, which put a pleased, almost shy smile on Arthur below him.

  “I’m not the one who can start tempests indoors.” Arthur rolled them over, putting himself on top again, and then pulled back.

  “Where’re you going?” Rory demanded, as Arthur stood from the bed.

  “I’m two seconds away from complete distraction and I need to deal with this ring first.”

  Rory quickly sat up, snatching his glasses and shoving them on. “Just put it on the dresser and come back so I can kiss you. You must be going nuts, come on.”

  “The ring is being put out of your reach first.”

  Rory huffed. “You don’t gotta do that.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” Arthur disappeared through the bedroom door, his voice drifting back. “And it’s going somewhere that is not my briefcase or my safe, both of which a certain psychometric thinks he’s entitled to crack.”

  Rory rolled his eyes. “You’re wasting your time,” he called impatiently after him. “I can see the history of whatever I want. I could just touch your stuff till I find it.”

  “But you’re not going to,” came the echo from somewhere else in the apartment, “because you’re not a complete brat.”

  Rory snorted. “You’re real sure about that,” he said, loud enough for Arthur to hear.

  Arthur appeared in the doorframe a moment later, illumined by the soft light; broad shoulders showcased by the vest buttoned tight down to his belted trim waist, the close cut of his trousers, hints of the shape of his chest and arm muscles through the white fitted dress shirt. Geez, what a view.

  Arthur folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “This is the part where you say, Of course, Ace, I’d never use magic to find something you hid from me.”

  “Come here, already.”

  “Theodore,” Arthur said pointedly, and Rory’s stomach did an excited flip. “Are you going to keep your psychometry to yourself?”

  Rory met his gaze and deliberately leaned back against the pillows, hoping he looked even half as tempting as Arthur did in a bed. “Come on, daddy.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you even.”

  “Come do something bad to me.”

  Arthur was on him a heartbeat later, pressing Rory down on his back. “You’re incorrigible.”

  Rory arched up into him, sparks of pleasure dancing everywhere their bodies touched. “Got you to come back to bed, didn’t I?”

  Arthur took Rory’s wrists in his hands and deliberately pinned them to the pillow next to his head. “Maybe I came back to extract my promise.”

  Rory shivered, and tilted his head up to brush his lips against Arthur’s. “Then come and get it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The metal table beneath his skin is like ice, the manacles biting into his wrists. Arthur stares at the ceiling of the tiny cell and tries to remember warm spring in New York, the laughter of his newest niece, the smile of the handsome soldier he’d spent one night with in Dijon. Anything to keep his mind off the here and now.

  But the scrape of the door opening pulls him back to the present.

  “Lieutenant Kenzie.”

  The words are in English, not German, a man with a British accent. Arthur tracks the newcomer as he strides up to the table. He has closely cropped blond hair and bright
blue eyes, and he’s even bigger and broader than Arthur himself.

  “They tell me you will not talk.”

  The dream. Distantly, Arthur knows he’s in the dream. He knows what’s coming, knows he’s about to relive the horror that still haunts the darkest corners of his mind, but he can’t make it stop as his dream-self looks back at the ceiling.

  The man leans over the table so his face fills Arthur’s vision. “You will talk to me,” he says lowly.

  Arthur opens his mouth, his name and rank on his tongue.

  But the man’s face is changing, his teeth elongating and sharpening, his jaw distending into a beastly shape, his body growing larger as his eyes burn red—

  There’s a burst of light.

  The monster and the room are gone.

  * * *

  Arthur’s eyes flew open as he sat instantly upright. His skin was covered in goose bumps, every hair standing on end, all his nerve endings dancing like he’d just passed through a lightning storm. He ran his hands over his bare arms as his gaze darted around the room, seeing the faint yellow light on the dresser, feeling the soft blankets around him and mattress under him.

  Dream. The old dream. He was in his apartment, in America, plagued by the same dream he’d had countless times, except—

  Except the nightmare had never ended like that before.

  The skin on his arms was clammy with cold sweat. But the scars on his chest didn’t burn with phantom pain; nerves all over his body instead prickled with the echo of the miniature lightning bolts. And already he could feel his heartbeat slowing, his breath evening, like the dream was being siphoned away before it was allowed to truly take hold.

  There was a stirring under the blankets next to him.

  He forced himself to push the comforter away, forced himself to ignore the unpleasant sting of cold air on his damp skin. It didn’t matter if he was already calming; he’d never been able to sleep after that dream and he needed to get up and go where his fears wouldn’t wake Rory. He started to stand from the bed—

  A warm hand touched his arm. “Arthur?”