Epilogue

FESTIVITY PREPARATIONS ARE well underway by the afternoon. Every eave and window frame of the lake house is liberally adorned with white lights, enough to light up the whole street when daylight fades. Constance lent her artistic skills to help lay out rangolis in colored sand and spices at every entrance and had even taken off her boots without complaint to join Ravi and Val indoors, placing candles and diya lamps on every available surface. The lamps won’t be lit until sundown, but even so, Ravi is delighted with the results, the space transformed into a proper holiday display. Bright flowers and the aroma of spices tug at a thread of nostalgia Ravi hadn’t even realized was stitched in him.

Harry and Nate arrive about the same time. After admiring the rangoli mandalas, they both toe off their shoes and carefully step over them into the house. Nate came straight from work, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, whereas Harry juggles a loose assortment of bottles weighing down each arm.

“Did I ever tell you I was a bartender for a brick when I was nineteen?” Harry says by way of greeting, bumping her shoulder into Ravi’s as she heads toward the dining room. “I’m gonna be the party mixologist, it’ll be great. Might as well leave all this here, I figure.” She shrugs the bottles up, glass clinking. “Don’t really need it at my place, so I might as well stock the bar here. What the fuck am I gonna make with green chartreuse and Aperol and all that fancy shit, anyway?” She disappears behind the door frame, then pokes her head back out to say, “The house looks awesome, by the way. We’re still doing poker later, right?” Not waiting for his answer, she vanishes again, only for two other distant female voices to ring out in welcome.

Ravi smiles at Nate. “Hi.”

“Hey there, handsome.” Nate grins back, hanging up his bag and cardigan before rolling up his sleeves to the elbows. “Ready to get cookin’?”

“I’ll give it a shot, but you should probably keep your expectations low.” Ravi steps close to kiss Nate, a flutter rising in his breast. “Though if you need takeout reheated, I’m your guy.”

Nate leans into the kiss with a pleased hum. “That you are. You’ll be fine. You can be on slicing and dicing duty. You’re great with knives.” As he looks Ravi over, he tilts his head to the side, the warmth in his smile gathering a mischievous edge. “Whoa, how did Milan ship you another bespoke T-shirt so quickly?”

Despite himself, Ravi laughs. “You know what, Doc? You’re a real comedian.”

*

BY THE TIME the sun hits the treetops, Ravi’s hard at work on the second of Harry’s well-made Tequila sunrises. A multicultural array of snacks and desserts covers the kitchen island. Nate’s gluten-free poutine hits the exact middle mark between delightful and disgusting, in Ravi’s opinion and to Nate’s great amusement. However, his replica of Ravi’s favorite coconut shrimp is so spot-on that Val teleports out to bring back a plate from Kerala itself for a taste-test comparison. While the original is spicier, Ravi declares Nate’s version as more flavorful. Nate flushes all the way to his hairline, grinning happily. He pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose and busies himself with the recipes, offering suggestions and helpful techniques as Ravi takes a stab at a few simple dishes.

To Ravi’s complete shock, the micchar turns out okay. The curry leaves got a little over-crispy in the fryer, but he’d learned the trick of it for the gulab jamun. The dish won’t win any beauty contests, but all the right flavors and textures are present and accounted for. Constance proclaims herself a big fan of the saffron syrup, at times bypassing the sweet fried dumplings in favor of spooning up the sauce alone.

“A king’s ransom in saffron,” she chirps with delight. “’Tis like cooking with gold.”

“Some people do that,” Nate mentions, biting into a dumpling while aiming a thumbs-up at Ravi. Ravi’s ears warm as he finds an unexpectedly deep well of satisfaction that he was actually able to make something, to do something useful off the battlefield. “Gold flakes in fancy desserts and such.”

Harry’s socked feet swing from her perch on the counter. “I brought Goldschläger. I can throw saffron, black pepper, and penicillin in it to create the ultimate blow-your-medieval-mind cocktail.”

“Every day in this land is a revelry of obscene decadence,” Constance laughs. “Hot showers ‘blow my mind’ well enough without wasting fine spices. I’ve only heard of saffron before I came here, though we called it something else. ‘Blood of the crocus,’ or near enough. How do you say saffron in your native tongue, my friend?”

“Which one, Hindi?” Ravi leans a hip on the counter and takes another sip of his Tequila sunrise. Harry fixed it strong, and his head is a little light and floaty. “Kesara.”

Constance repeats it, but Val shakes her head and suggests, “More emphasis on the first syllable.”

This time Constance puts on a terrible, exaggerated Indian twist that makes Ravi laugh out loud, coughing into his drink.

Harry’s eyes go very round. “Okay, definitely not like that. New rule, none of that. No drama club dialect work.”

“Aw,” Ravi complains. “I have a really good generic white guy impression.”

“You do? Never mind what I said, I have to hear this immediately.”

“Seconded,” Nate is quick to add, hastily swallowing a gravy-laden fry.

Ravi sets down his drink. He props both fists on his hips, glances imperiously around at the spread of food, and bellows, “You fellas got any ranch dressing?”

Val catches Harry before she slides off the counter and hits the floor, laughing fit to burst. When Nate can speak again, clutching at his sides, he wipes moisture from the corner of his eyes.

“Oh, fuck, that’s uncanny.”

Ravi grins.

Constance pats him on the arm. “I do believe I’m missing some cultural keystone here, but ’tis quite a thing to see you in such jovial spirits, nephew-to-be.”

She squeaks in surprise as Ravi pulls her into a brief hug. “Yeah. Thanks, Constance.” He steps back with a bright smile for his team. “Who’s ready for some poker before we light up the fireworks?”

*

IN THE BACKYARD, lights strung overhead and the air still redolent of smoke and powder from sparklers and ground fountains, a thin sliver of the rising moon reflects off the rippling surface of the lake.

Val sits cross-legged on the grass, Constance braiding her hair into complicated plaits while the angel relates a tale to Nate; the story of the first time she ever beheld fireworks, long ago in China. Rapt, Nate absorbs the story with obvious delight, occasionally interjecting with clarifying questions, jotting notes in a Moleskine journal. Vibrating with loud purrs, Griswold rolls over in Val’s lap, paws in the air while he graciously accepts belly pets.

Ravi smiles, stealthily extricating himself from the group. Out past the warm glow cast by the lights, Harry sits by herself on the lakeside bench. As he pads over the grass, she lobs a cucumber into the lake. It hits the water with a fair bit of force, more of a bloop than a splash.

“You trying to feed the kappa or knock it out, qaatil?” He settles in next to her, both arms spread across the back of the bench.

“Little of column A, little of column B. What’s qaatil? Sweet apple of my eye? Loveliest of betrotheds?” She bats her lashes with exaggerated sweetness.

He grins. “Killer.”

Harry slaps a hand over her mouth to cover a loud guffaw. “Oh, fuck you, man,” she says through laughter. “Kill a guy once and he never lets you hear the end of it.”

Ravi chuckles, stretching out his legs in the grass.

Harry sighs, looking up at the moon. “Still can’t believe how bad Val kicked our asses. You could barely see her over that pile of chips.”

“She slow-played us. Nate’s right, we should take her to Vegas.”

“Casino-based monsters, beware.” Harry gives him a sideways glance. “You gonna tell me what’s been on your mind all evening?”

He makes a face before he can pull up a mask of impassivity. “Detectives. No fair. You’ve been plying me with alcohol all night.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’m sure no one else noticed. Your super-spy game remains strong.” Harry kicks her feet out, mirroring his body language. “Trust stuff bothering you? Somebody’s arm you need me to twist?”

“No, that’s all progressing better than expected.” Ravi tips his head back for a moment to enjoy the night air. As usual with mission debriefs, he starts with the most salient point and works his way out. “Cayenne from the future got in touch.” Harry sits up very straight, and he waves a hand to allay her concerns. “Not in person. I’m fine, really. They assured me that their past self will never bother us again. I’m actually inclined to believe it.”

Harry gives Ravi a long, slow blink. “Kind of a lot to absorb there, champ. The fuck.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and crosses her legs underneath her. He gives her a few moments. After a bit she sighs, twisting the pearl on her finger. “Okay, so, future Cayenne is our mysterious helper. That sucks so fucking hard.”

Owing any measure of their success to any version of Cayenne does, indeed, suck extremely fucking hard. But Ravi’s hard-pressed to muster up any indignation or outrage. It is what it is, and Ravi’s made his choices to be on the path he’s now on. He regrets none of them, and that is an incredibly freeing feeling.

“Yeah. Hence why I wanted to keep this to myself until later. I wanted to…have a nice time, just for us. For the team.”

“And it’s been a genuine delight, seriously you’ve gone above and beyond, but did you just hence me? Hence! You’ve been banging too many dishy professors, dude. Next it’ll be therefores.”

“Just the right amount of dishy professors, I think.” Ravi’s grin fades. “There’s one more thing.”

“Uh-oh. Is this another bandage off moment?”

“Cayenne sent me the urumi as a gift, and the choice whether or not to send it to you in the past.”

In the ensuing silence, a distant whip-poor-will calls out, perhaps a final farewell to autumn before it flies off for more southern climes.

“Wow, okay,” Harry huffs, holding her hands palms out, “shittiest gift ever.”

Ravi barks out a laugh. “Right?” Unable to tamp down his misgivings, he looks at her askance. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Dude, do nooooot apologize,” Harry groans, lolling her head to the back of the bench. “Because I totally get the whole, like, kaleidoscopic implications of your decision backwards and forwards. And yeah, sure, it’s a lot, and it’s not all roses for either of us, but… There’s no telling what our lives would have been like if events would have gone differently. And I’m kinda coming around on the whole…you know. Being Chosen thing. I don’t know. Work in progress. So, I’m not going to ask why you decided to send me the urumi. I know that’s a layered thing. Like a complicated lasagna.” She stacks her hands on top of one another. “Nice work on sidestepping forensics, by the way. Clean work.”

Her tone goes unexpectedly tentative. “I do have a question though. I’ve… You’ve never been salty with me about it. Me being Chosen instead of you. Not even once. You spent your life preparing and training for it, expecting it, counting on it, and…nobody would blame you for being royally pissed off that the noodle sword would even give me the time of day, much less bond to me. But you’ve been in my corner from the word go. Why?”

All Ravi can do is give her the honest truth. “Because you’ll be a better Chosen than I would have been. I wouldn’t have pulled together a team like you have. I wouldn’t have made friends, and allies, and improved the lives of everyone around me the way you have. I’d have tried to lone wolf it, been thoroughly miserable, and probably already be dead. Permanently, I mean.” He smiles, bumping his shoulder into hers. “Therefore, I’m glad I got assigned to you, Harry McAllister.”

She sways with the contact, and when she rocks back into place, she lets herself rest against his side. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the others laugh and talk.

Eventually Harry clears her throat and speaks. “If you think the Pepper was telling the truth—it’s a Diwali miracle!—about leaving us alone, then that’s a big fucking relief. Because we’ve got a job.”

“Oh?”

“I also didn’t wanna spoil the vibe, kept it under my hat. But Bobby dropped me a line. He thinks something fishy is going on in Boston. Possible haunting, or maybe something worse.” She levels a toothy smile his way. “Whaddya say to a good old-fashioned monster hunt?”

“Hell, yeah,” he says, returning the grin. “I’ll back your play.”

*

AFTER THE OTHERS have gone home, Ravi gets to work extinguishing the dozens of candles still burning. He’s halfway through with the living room when Nate appears in the doorway, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Now this is some mood lighting,” he remarks, tossing the towel back into the kitchen. “That was really nice, babe. Looks like we can add party planning to your list of marketable skills.”

“It’s surprising how many battlefield tactics can be applied to social gatherings.” If Nate likes the ambiance, Ravi decides to leave a few diya lamps still burning.

“I think Sun Tzu said that once,” Nate chuckles, and as he moves into the room, Ravi can see what he means by mood lighting. The lamplight paints Nate’s handsome features in stark relief, warm light gilding the cut of his jawline and cheekbones, the clever arch of his brow. Breath catches in Ravi’s throat.

“Have a seat,” Nate says. “Got something for you.”

Remembering Nate’s earlier offer, Ravi raises his brows. He arranges himself with arms stretched out over the back of the couch, knees wide, and looks up with a sly curve of his lips.

“You minx,” Nate husks, eyes roving. “Sorry to disappoint, it’s just a present.” He digs into his messenger bag and extracts a neatly wrapped package. He holds it up with a little ta-da! and takes a seat next to Ravi, setting the present on his lap.

Ravi pulls his limbs back in from their suggestive sprawl to pick up the gift. About the size of a loaf of bread, and almost light enough to be one. The wrapping paper is vibrant marigold yellow.

“What is… You didn’t have to get me anything, Nate.”

“Said I would, didn’t I?”

“You said you’d get me a sword, but I thought you were kidding. And this isn’t exactly sword sized.”

“You’re right, I did say that. Maybe I did and I did not get you a sword,” Nate says enigmatically. He looks enormously pleased with himself.

Ravi peels back the tape and uncovers a plain pinewood box with a sliding top. Inside, nestled in a bed of shredded excelsior, rests a bichuwa. The small dagger looks finely made, with a recurved blade in the shape of a scorpion’s sting. The hilt is one solid piece that loops into a highly decorated knuckle guard, etched designs reminiscent of medieval Indian artwork.

“Nate,” Ravi breathes, “this is…really nice. It looks maybe Mughal era?” He picks it up. Surprisingly well-balanced. Though it looks primarily decorative, the blade has obviously been expertly made. “Where did you get this?”

Nate’s grin widens. “I had Val drop me off at the Everglades the other day so I could make a stop at the liminal market.”

Astonished, Ravi blinks at Nate. “You went to the Floating Bazaar?”

“I did! I’ve only ever been to the Snowblind Fete before, up in Iqaluit. Much smaller.” An excited glow spreads over Nate’s face, a boyish glint in his eyes. “Ravi, the bazaar was so cool. All the shops were set up on rafts or boats, and of course it was twilight, so everything was lit by these glowing fish in the water, or by jars of fireflies hanging everywhere. And there was this Baba Yaga-looking lady cooking up kettle corn, and this guy who was a talking tree, and this green elf girl selling human artifacts, it was amazing.”

Ravi’s jaw drops. “What? That’s awesome!”

“I know! You ever been to a liminal market before? I feel like that’s gotta be a Trust thing, right? Like a border patrol? Neutral territory or no, I bet anywhere that dimensional planes rub up against each other warrants a little extra scrutiny.”

“It is, yeah. There’s a Florida branch disguised as a park ranger station, and just about all they do there is keep an eye on the market gate. I’ve been to a liminal market in Britain. Just a small seasonal one, only open on equinoxes and solstices. A warlock we were after tried to avoid apprehension by running through it.”

Nate stretches an arm across Ravi’s shoulder, pulling him into a relaxed embrace. The ease with which he does it, the casual intimacy, still takes Ravi’s breath away, makes him feel like every time is the first time.

“Did you catch him?”

“Mm-hm. It was actually a lot of fun. I got to knock over a fruit stand, slide across a counter. Classic foot chase stuff.”

Nate laughs. “How are you the coolest? Did you have to buy all the fruit?”

“The shop guy tried to make me pay for it with my shadow. I didn’t really have time to sightsee, then. All these years stationed so close, and I’ve never been to the Floating Bazaar.”

“I’ll take you. I made a few friends I’d love to introduce you to, including this amazing tattoo artist. Pretty sure she’s related to a Mayan tattoo god. Hardcore. Her linework was incredible. I didn’t have time for new ink, or I totally would have gotten something.” He presses a kiss to Ravi’s temple. “Thought she’d be great for that tiger tatt you’ve been talking about.”

“Of course, you made friends with a tattooist demigod. How are you the coolest?”

Nate goes a little pinker. “Also used some of that diamond money and picked up a magical quiver that replenishes any arrows I fire.”

“Now that’s excellent.” Anything that keeps Nate a little safer is better than any present. Ravi angles the box on his lap to admire the bichuwa. “Thanks for this, jaan. It’s beautiful.” It’s a nice dagger. Not exactly easily concealable, or practical to carry into fights, but Nate’s not a weapons guy. Ravi can appreciate the gesture regardless.

Nate’s smile goes a little sly. “It’s got a name and everything.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” Slyness goes downright tricksy, dimples flashing. “Varunastra.”

Ravi stares at Nate for a solid fifteen seconds. Then he looks at the bichuwa. Then back at Nate. “No, it’s not,” he whispers, more breath than speech.

“Only one way to find out.” Nate gestures encouragingly at the dagger.

“What the… You’re telling me that this is Varunastra. From the legends. The Varunastra.” Ravi blinks, feeling very slow on the uptake. “Varunastra, that the god Varuna created from water and storms. Varunastra, that can assume the shape of any weapon the wielder is familiar with.”

“That’s the one.”

“…Baap re.” Speaking in hushed tones, Ravi picks the blade up, this time gingerly. “More warriors in history have wielded this than I can count. Karna. Bhishma. Rama.” Heartstrings twanging sharp, Ravi swallows thickly and looks up. “Nathaniel. This is… How did you… I can’t—”

“I’m pretty good at giving gifts. It’s a talent.”

“I… This is priceless. How did you…” No amount of diamonds in the world would be enough to pay for a treasure like this. He turns it over in his hands, wondering how it works, how he could ever possibly prove worthy enough to wield it.

“It wasn’t cheap,” Nate admits with a cluck of his tongue. “I had to pay in stories.”

“What?”

“No lie. Like five straight hours of storytelling. I felt like Scheherazade.” He slides a hand over Ravi’s wrist, angling Varunastra up higher. “So, the myths say that the weapon’s abilities can be triggered by meditation and mantras, but the seller said that a strong will could achieve the same thing. Your will can pretty much bench press an elephant, so I think you can just want it to be something else, and it will.”

“That’s… It’ll probably take a lot of practice to get ri—” The blade shivers in Ravi’s hand and flows like liquid into a long, wickedly curved talwar. He gasps, turning the gleaming scimitar over in his hands. It’s beautiful; a pattern of marbled steel, gold, and ivory worked into the hilt. Better yet, it’s perfectly balanced, and as light as a fencing épée.

Ravi feels utterly poleaxed. Fuck, he could have a poleaxe right now if he wanted.

“What the fuck. Muhje vishwas nahi ho raha! This is unbelievable,” he quickly translates. “Can it… I’ve heard it can be any weapon the wielder is familiar with. Can it…?”

It’s an ancient legendary weapon, there’s no way it can possibly—

The sword shivers again and shifts into a thick-barreled, magnum Desert Eagle hand cannon with muzzle brake and adjustable sights, all in ivory and marbled Damascus steel. Ravi sucks in a shocked breath. Another thought, and the handgun expands into a fully assembled replica of Ravi’s trusty M24 SWS, long-range scope and all, albeit the surface now impossibly tooled in that same intricate Damascus pattern.

“Stylish,” Nate remarks cheerfully. “That tracks. Little like you, sunshine.”

“Nathaniel fucking Corbin,” Ravi barks. He phases the sniper rifle into a small rondel dagger and drives it point-down into the surface of the coffee table, heedless of damaging the wood. Nate jumps a little in surprise, but Ravi clambers into his lap, knots his fingers in Nate’s hair, and yanks him into a fierce, bruising kiss.

His heart is suddenly too big for his chest to contain, a savage thing full of wildness, ready to break its tether and gallop free.

Ravi slips down off the couch between Nate’s knees and shoves them wide. “Let’s see how fast I can make you come.” He flicks up a steely gaze, running his tongue over his lips. “Objections?”

Eyes wide, pupils already blown, Nate swallows hard and shakes his head, legs falling further open in clear invitation.

“Good.”

Not wasting any time, Ravi opens Nate’s fly and jerks his pants down his hips, growling with impatience. His mouth already waters, pulse thrumming steady in his veins. Nate’s twitching cock fills quickly in Ravi’s hand, sending his own arousal climbing. Nate hisses a shocked curse, his hands flying back to grab the couch cushions, a flush claiming his throat. In no time at all, Ravi has Nate exactly where he wants him, hard and heavy in his hands, and gusts a hot breath across sensitive skin before dragging his tongue up in broad, leonine swathes.

Nate gasps, a whimper catching in his chest. “Ravi, fuck—” His head falls back, but his eyes stay locked on Ravi’s face, glazed and awestruck.

Ravi’s pretty sure that Nate has had more sexual partners than he has, but when Ravi learns a skill, whether it’s firing a gun or sucking cock, he dedicates himself wholeheartedly to perfecting it. And right now, he aims to impress. So, he pulls out all the stops, sliding his mouth down around Nate’s length, down and further down, giving him the tight squeeze of his throat without hesitation, so deep he has no further to go, nose brushing blond curls.

Nate’s hands fist so hard in the couch the fabric creaks. A string of heartfelt, unselfconscious praise trips from his lips, each word stoking Ravi’s desire higher.

“Holy shit, Ravi, that’s… Nngh, fuck, you’re good with your mouth. Jesus. Perfect, incredible, yeah, babe…”

This amazing, unbelievable man went to another dimension, spent hours and hours of effort, and not to mention what must have been days of research, just to buy a gift for him. For Ravi. That alone would be enough to make Ravi’s head spin, but Varunastra itself? He can’t even conceive of anything more perfect.

Ravi has never felt confident with words, always finding them insufficient when compared to action. How can mere language fully illustrate the depth of his feelings, the way he feels like he’s made of molten gold, held in cupped hands and brimming over?

Instead, he casts a hungry look up through his lashes and slings Nate’s thigh over his shoulder, yanking Nate bodily down the couch and burying him impossibly deeper down the vise of his throat. He welcomes the stretch, throwing himself into every eager backstroke of his tongue and every rippling swallow.

Nate doesn’t last much longer, spilling hot down Ravi’s throat while white-knuckling couch cushions, keening and gasping, his curses shattering into nonsense. Grinning, Ravi pulls back, impressed despite himself. A new personal record. Definitely way under two minutes.

“Guh,” Nate attempts, his temples damp with sweat. “Wow. Words. I can do those. Fuck. So, I uh. I guess y’like your present?” He smiles, voice breathy, and swipes a hand through Ravi’s hair, pushing it off his forehead. His eyes crease at the corners, warm and admiring.

Dropping his face to Nate’s thigh, Ravi tries to get his expression under control, certain his wild, incautious heart is blindingly obvious. A reckless thing, his heart; unwise as any newborn, but Ravi still wants to give it, to hold it out in his hand like an offering. Please take this. Please be patient with it, it’s new minted.

“Best present I’ve ever gotten in my life,” he manages against denim, voice thick and mangled. “And I once got a yacht for my birthday.”

Nate snorts a laugh and pulls Ravi up onto his lap. He thumbs over Ravi’s jaw, nails rasping pleasantly through facial hair.

“You have a yacht?”

“Not anymore. I don’t even like sailing. Plus, they’re too much upkeep.”

“Tell me about it,” Nate murmurs against Ravi’s lips, mirth tangible in the relaxed sprawl of his limbs. “My family has a canoe up at the lake, and we have to replace the oars every decade. Boats, man. Such a hassle.” He slides a palm between their bodies, cups Ravi’s straining cock through his common-man jeans, and licks into his mouth with a soft moan.

“Fuck, sunshine, I can taste myself on your tongue.”

Ravi gasps sharply, bucking into the touch, so hard it’s painful. “Nathaniel,” he hisses, then demands, “tell me what you want.” He pours his yearning into a claiming kiss, more teeth and tongue than anything else.

Nate goes slack under him, heartbeat visible in his throat. He cups Ravi’s cheek in his hand, whispering into the kiss, “You,” as his tongue swipes over the seam of their joined lips, “just you.”

Ravi’s heart swoops like an eagle in flight, rising high where the air is thin, lightheaded from altitude. He snakes a hand into Nate’s hair and pulls, scraping the edge of his teeth up that bared throat. “Tell me,” he insists, or pleads. “Want to hear it. Want to give you what you need, jaan. Anything.”

Nate shivers. “Christ. Need you inside me. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Need that too.”

Nate groans, “Ravi, please, ruko mat.” The borrowed Hindi sounds lovely with the exotic angularity of Nate’s accent. Figures he’d have picked up how to say don’t stop, having heard it often enough from Ravi. “Did I get that right?”

“Haan,” Ravi whispers, “perfect.”

Nate scrambles for the hem of Ravi’s shirt and pulls it off over his head. He surges forward to run the hot brand of his tongue over Ravi’s chest, tracing scars. Ravi arches into it, back bowing, the frantic edge to Nate’s touch shooting fresh desire straight through him. Ravi eats up every little shudder, each gasp from Nate’s lips. He aches, pleasantly dizzy with anticipation.

It takes far too long to peel off their clothes, years to crowd themselves together on the narrow couch, another age to retrieve foil packets from their wallets, a millennium before Ravi finally, finally, guides Nate up on his knees over Ravi’s hips, pressing himself up into that eager heat. The slick velvet slide is enough to make Ravi’s eyes roll back in his head, self-control fraying at the edges.

“Yeah.” Nate rocks his head back, easing himself down onto Ravi’s cock. His sheen of sweat picks up glints from the lamplight and paints him glowing. “Oh, fuck, that’s perfect. That’s… You feel—” More pupil than iris, Nate’s eyes slide shut as words fail him.

“You feel amazing,” Ravi rasps, a vast understatement. He looks up, reverent. How had he earned this kind of luck? “Sundar.” Beautiful.

Nate grins in a blinding, joyful flash, leaning forward to pin Ravi’s wrists above his head, riding him mercilessly. Ravi shudders, every muscle going molten. It’d be the simplest thing to twist out of the restraint, but he can’t think of anything he’d rather do less.

The pitch of Nate’s voice goes rougher and deeper with every greedy snap of his hips. Ravi works one hand free to wrap around Nate’s cock, hard again so soon, slick with arousal.

“You close?”

Nate nods enthusiastically, teeth grooving a line in his red-bitten bottom lip.

“Good.” With a wicked grin, Ravi releases his grip.

Nate lets out a distressed whine. “Oh, you’re mean.”

“You think?”

Still smiling, Ravi takes two handfuls of Nate’s ass and grinds up into him for a few slow, languorous strokes, before easing all the way out. Nate barely manages one little noise of complaint before Ravi braces a foot on the floor and flips him over, sending Nate bouncing to his hands and knees while Ravi shifts to kneel behind him.

Nate quickly changes his tune, arms braced on the cushioned armrest, back arched. “Jesus fuck, that’s hot. Pleasepleaseplease—”

Ravi joins them back together with a glad hiss. “Still think I’m mean?”

“Absolutely.” Nate shoves himself back, starting up a fast, demanding rhythm Ravi is quick to match. “Don’t stop.”

Ravi’s not going to last, hurtling too close to the edge. He releases tensed, toned thighs to rest a palm over Nate’s breastbone, right over his stuttering pulse. Nate clasps Ravi’s hand and presses it tight, cleaving so close over his sprinting heart that it feels as if Ravi is holding it bare in his palm.

“Yes,” Nate says, and somehow that’s the best part.

It hits in a sudden, scorching flood. Ravi drags Nate upright with him, tattooed back pressed to scarred chest as he comes in a sweet, golden rush that rolls up his body in warm, slow waves, honey in his veins. He twines his arms tight around Nate’s middle, holding him close as possible to bury his face in the soft fall of cornsilk hair, unable and unwilling to keep a broken-throated shout locked behind his teeth.

Shivering, he presses open-mouthed kisses to the back of Nate’s neck, the salt of his skin thick on Ravi’s tongue, and strokes Nate through another peak, flushed and shaking, the slick drag of his body fever-hot around Ravi, impossibly good.

Afterwards he drags in breath after breath, head sent weightless and spinning in a way the earlier cocktails hadn’t managed to achieve. Ravi swallows hard and clings tighter, separating an unimaginable concept. Nate settles back against him, strong arms up overhead to card his fingers gently through Ravi’s sweat-damp hair.

“I…I really like you, Ravi,” Nate whispers.

“I really like you too, Nate,” he says with quiet certainty. He drags a line of kisses across Nathaniel’s shoulders, over the intricate inked branches of his tree. A sturdy, growing thing with deep roots, nourished into an enduring, flourishing profusion of leaves.

“Stay with me here tonight?” Nate asks, voice hoarse, chest hitching. “It’s Friday. We can…we can stay together the whole weekend, if you want.”

A smile breaks like dawn across Ravi’s face. “A weekend is a good start.”