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Nor did they speak, because there wasn’t a second where their lips were free of each other’s.
Their eyes said all they needed to.
Locked.
Linked.
And with every touch, Artair held him closer than Luca had ever dreamed possible. Like every embrace was proof that Luca was safe. That he was secure. That he was protected.
That he was worshiped for everything he was, and for everything that he believed.
Two hours later, the campfire was low and calm. Luca was resting his head against Artair’s bare chest. Pointing up at the twinkling stars. Seeing how many they could name.
Leo.
Orion.
Ursa Major.
The Great Bear.
Luca snuggled deeper into the embrace. The furry arm was wrapped tight around his back. Of all the amazing things about this man—and there were far too many for Luca to name—he gave the best hugs in the whole world. It was like every inch of Luca’s body was protected. Like there was no danger in all the world that could reach him here.
And then, out of the sky, came the one thing that still held that power.
Across the distance came a night-waking flash of white, followed by a sharp clap of thunder.
“Ugggh,” Luca groaned, trying to hide in the depth of Artair’s fur. The Command Center hadn’t mentioned any storms this morning. “Not this again.”
The bigger man chuckled. “I don’t think hiding will help.”
“If I can’t see it, the storm isn’t real?” said Luca, his voice muffled.
Artair messed with Luca’s well-fucked hair. “Hey, we got a whole month between storms? That’s something, right?”
Luca rolled reluctantly to his knees, placing a loving kiss on Artair’s lips. “Did you waterproof your tent with the beeswax?”
“Sure did.”
“Then try not to starve this time?”
Bowie immediately stole Luca’s warm spot. Artair snuggled him close and grabbed the half-eaten bag of marshmallows, trailing little white pillows across the grass. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sorted.”
Luca awoke in his own bed. The sky was soft and overcast, but thankfully free of rain.
The storm had been quick and ferocious, passing around eleven that morning, thankfully without causing any significant damage. A quick glance at the radio said that it was almost five in the afternoon now.
The loose t-shirt draped over him was as crinkled as his brain. The feeling was like his early college years, when he’d often woken up bleary from some party, much closer to the sun setting than rising.
Trying to finger-brush the hair out of his eyes, Luca staggered to the front door, yearning for a little cross-breeze among the stuffy enclosure—sealed tight to prevent the sideways rain from drowning him.
Luca paused as the door swung open.
Because the sight before him was so surprising, it woke him up completely.
Out in the meadow, about twenty paces from his balcony, was Artair—dressed in jeans and a blue flannel and gently strumming his guitar. Despite the lack of sun, he was a glowing flame among all those muted colors.
And Luca felt like his heart might burst.
