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Fal’ran collapsed back against him with a sigh and Patrick’s chest filled up with so much affection it hurt. “I still feel…” Fal’ran shifted, and his lips twisted around his tusks.
“Guilty.” Patrick wrapped an arm around his waist to hold him close, afraid he’d pull away as they got to the crux of the issue.
Fal’ran nodded. Patrick tilted his head to see Fal’ran’s profile, his drawn brows, his tight eyes, his pouting lips. Fal’ran took Patrick’s free hand in both of his and inspected it as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Is guilt a new feeling for you?” Patrick kept his tone neutral as the skin of his hand tingled with Fal’ran’s attention.
Fal’ran made a disgusted sound. “Yeah. And I feel guilty about that, too. It’s terrible. I hate this.”
“I know the feeling. I hate it, too.” Patrick chuckled and squeezed Fal’ran’s waist. “But I’m proud of you for it.”
“For the guilt?” Fal’ran raised an eyebrow at their interlaced fingers.
“Mhmm. It means you care.” Patrick smiled when Fal’ran met his eyes. “About someone other than yourself. Guilt is the price you pay sometimes, but it’s worth it.” When Fal’ran made a face and looked away, Patrick caught his chin. “I don’t want you to drown in it.” He stroked his thumb over Fal’ran’s jaw. “You don’t deserve to drown it. But don’t harden yourself to it either.”
Fal’ran’s lips quirked. “Just run it out?”
“Just run it out.”
When Fal’ran’s burnt-orange eyes dipped to Patrick’s mouth, Patrick leaned back and turned his face to the stars, the heat in his face reminding him of his own guilt. He geared up for the apology that should have been easy but had so many difficult and embarrassing things attached to it, it stuck on his tongue.
“Do you regret what we did?” Fal’ran swiveled in Patrick’s lap to face him. “In the locker rooms after the Trial?”
“No.” Patrick’s tongue unstuck itself at the hurt and embarrassment hidden behind Fal’ran’s determined frown. “God, no. It was—” he held his unruly tongue before it embarrassed him by telling Fal’ran how life-changing what they’d done had been. “No. I don’t regret it. I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”
“You wouldn’t look at me afterwards.” Fal’ran’s tone edged into accusatory.
“I didn’t…” Patrick cringed as his face heated. “…know what to say.”
“Or how to look at me?”
“I don’t have much experience with this,” Patrick admitted in the understatement of his life. He firmed his jaw to resist curling away. “But I don’t regret it and you did nothing wrong. The problem was me, not you.”
Fal’ran stared hard at him, and Patrick braced for more pointed questions. But after a moment, Fal’ran sighed and laid his back against Patrick’s chest again. “Neither do I.”
Patrick’s snort came out strangled by the sudden, welcome heat and weight of Fal’ran’s body. “Neither do you what? Have much experience?” He didn’t believe that for a second.
“I don’t.” Fal’ran shrugged. “With fucking, sure, but…” he shrugged again. “Well, we just talked about how much experience I have with caring.”
Patrick froze.
Did he want to analyze that sentence? Did he want to start down the maze of emotions that casual sentence opened?
“I’ve never cared about anyone.” Fal’ran picked up Patrick’s limp hand and Patrick decided that no, he didn’t want to analyze that last sentence. Fal’ran had more to say, and he couldn’t listen and spiral at the same time. “And it never mattered because no one ever cared about me.”
“No one?” Patrick asked as Fal’ran dragged his fingers over Patrick’s palms, highlighting the stark difference in their skin tones. Patrick’s was pale and pink-tinged, while Fal’ran’s was darker with a green undertone.
“Mom went off to war on Tava right after I was born.” Fal’ran curled Patrick’s fingers and compared their nails. Fal’ran’s were slightly thicker and longer. “Never came back. Died, I think.”
Patrick frowned as he realized he might have fought beside Fal’ran’s mother and never known it.
“I’d say it fucked up my dad, but maybe he was fucked up already.” Fal’ran ran his fingers along each of Patrick’s, studying them. He rubbed the pads of his fingers over Patrick’s callouses, the only thing they had in common: all the same callouses in all the same places. “Maybe that’s why Mom left.”
“Or maybe she was doing her duty,” Patrick murmured.
Fal’ran fingers spasmed over Patrick’s. “To her country, maybe. Not to me.”
Patrick didn’t have a response to that.
