“I thought I disgusted you,” Tomas says softly against Marcus’ cheek, and Marcus, so eager to comfort the broken who aren’t himself, swears, “Never. Tomas, never.”
“I thought you thought I was weak.”
“Never, never.”
“I wanted so badly for you to touch me.”
Marcus takes a shuddering breath. His ragged exhale tickles Tomas’ cheek. “The demon made you—”
“No.” Tomas kisses his cheek again, just because he can, because his cheek is there and his lips are willing and Marcus’ head falls as if it weighs too much to hold, so Tomas kisses his cheekbones as well, kisses his temples and the bridge of his nose and the impossibly soft skin of his eyelids. He holds Marcus’ face between his hands and rains kisses upon him like the sprinkle of holy water. “The demon was a lie. My desire wasn’t. It isn’t.”