Perigee [bxb] | Bad Moon Book II

20; {Jaylin}: the lich

Jaylin painted plaster along the last red cut on Quentin's back, trying not to touch to deep, but to cover the mark completely like he had the others. Then he stripped the last piece of bandage from its backing and laid it over the deep vertical gash.

"I'm sorry," he said again—for probably the dozenth time now.

"Stop apologizing." Quentin was minding the smaller punctures on his thighs, dabbing on the plaster and laying down bandages over the marks. "They don't hurt, really."

Maybe they didn't, but Jaylin felt too rotten to lay it to rest just yet. He moved closer to the edge of the bed where Quentin sat, leaning against his back, resting his chin on the broad surface of Quentin's shoulder. He still smelled of the shower, all lavender and lemon.

"Do they always do that, or is it perigee?" Jaylin asked.

He watched over Quentin's shoulder as he pulled a fresh bandage from the first-aid kit and laid it over the deep divots on his thigh—five cruel crescent cuts, bruising the skin just beneath the hem of his boxer briefs. "All the time," Quentin said. "But you get better at controlling it."

And when Quentin was done minding his own gashes, he reached for Jaylin's hand and brought it forward from under his arm to take a look. "They're starting to go down, see?"

Jaylin could see it—the elongated tips of his fingernails, not as sharp as they'd been, but still talons compared to usual. He had no idea it was these things he'd been scraping down Quentin's skin.

He pulled his hand away to wrap his arms around Quentin's middle, feeling the risen lines on his stomach—just small scrapes compared to the one on his back. Jesus, where hadn't Jaylin clawed him to ribbons?

"Did it hurt?" he asked.

Quentin was screwing the cap back onto the jar of healing clay. "Nah."

"It hurt, I can tell."

"These things are natural for us, Jaylin. It's alright."

Jaylin sighed, thumbing along the lines on his stomach. "You didn't do it to me."

"I've had a lot of time to learn how to control it."

"You mean you've had a lot of sex," Jaylin said, chin jabbing his shoulder.

Quentin gave a passive laugh through his nose. He brought Jaylin's hand up again and he tried not to flare as Quentin placed a kiss on the wild blue veins of his wrist. "Nothing that prepared me for you."

He burned, ears and cheeks and fingers and toes. The heat flushed his neck. And if only to steer them back on track, Jaylin asked, "Will the clay fix them?"

"Give it an hour," Quentin said.

"An hour? What's in that stuff?"

"Herbs and roots and desert clay. Just things we know to have healing agents for us. Devi makes it and I buy jars every spring." Finally, Quentin had placed the last of the equipment back in the box and gave it a shove onto the nightstand. "No more sighing. It's alright, Jaylin."

He had to ask it. Quentin wasn't Tyler, but he needed to know.  "Still love me?"

Quentin turned his head to look at him with a grin, and Jaylin shut his eyes as he felt their heads rest together at the brow. "More now, I think."

Jaylin laughed, pressing back against his forehead. "So you don't regret it?"

"Why would I regret it?"

"Anna."

He partly expected Quentin to go cold like he'd done before. To pull away, find that distance that came with betrayal. But instead, Quentin turned to him a bit more, and Jaylin was swept by the feel of his lips—one soft, lingering kiss and then another. Moving until he'd pressed Jaylin onto his back, lips walking down his chin, kissing the apple of his throat. Then he rose to look Jaylin in the eye. "I've had sex with two people since Anna died. I regretted it. Even though it was perigee—even though I had no control over what I wanted then. I regretted it and I hated this night for manipulating me. But it wasn't perigee that made me want you, Jaylin. And I am never going to regret you."