Words Like Violence

Garrett doesn't clutch at him desperately, not at first. Instead his fingers twist in his trousers, and when Anders says, "Whatever you need," his jaw clenches and his eyes squeeze shut, and that near-permanent grin with the hint of teeth is gone like it never existed.

Or maybe, he fears, it never really did.

Anders cups his hand over Garrett's only partly to keep him from digging a hole through his thigh, and he wants so badly to wash him in cool healing magic, to ease away at least the physical stress and pain so that the real healing can begin, but despite the protestations in the part of his head that isn't his, magic is no refuge tonight.

The move from sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the bed and into Anders' arms is gradual, and even as Anders eases Garrett the last step of the way, his head tucked into Anders' chest, he's still tense like a bowstring.

Now he clings, pulling Anders tight.

"This isn't about me, you know," Garrett says, "I just really like the way you smell." His nails dig into Anders' back, and he's shaking like he's straining with the effort to keep from crumbling to dust. His voice is pathetic, more like a dry sob than a joke, and his laugh is even worse. "Rank sewer's very vogue right now."

Anders runs his hand gently over Garrett's back.

"You should bottle it up," he says, "Sell it to nobles who want to get in on that Darktown chic, walk around as the low man all day, get drunk on fifty-sovereign cognac by night. Love, you could make a killing."

But Anders can feel the cold wetness seeping into his shirts.