Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2176404.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fairy_Tail
  Relationship:
      Gray_Fullbuster/Lyon_Vastia
  Character:
      Gray_Fullbuster, Lyon_Vastia
  Additional Tags:
      No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Blow_Jobs,
      Established_Relationship, Ice_Play, Ice_Powers
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-07 Words: 4967
****** Crystalline ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Gray isn’t wearing pants when the knock comes at his door." Gray
     gets an unexpected visitor, and falls back into old habits.
Gray isn’t wearing pants when the knock comes at his door.
It’s hardly his fault. He lives alone, after all, and it’s not like
anyone prefers wearing pants to wearing just boxers. He’s not expecting a
visitor, and all he’s planning to do is lay on his bed, maybe read a magazine
or just form fragile ice sculptures in the magical equivalent of doodling to
pass the time. He’s in the middle of one when the sound startles him upright,
his heart pounding with the first rush of unwarranted panic at the sound.
“One sec!” he shouts as acknowledgment, closing his hand so the delicate
tracery of crystals collapses down to a few droplets of water. He can’t even
remember where his clothing from earlier today ended up; after a brief panicked
search he gives up entirely, turns to the crumpled pair of jeans from
yesterday. The second knock, louder and more insistent, comes as he’s shaking
out the worst of the wrinkles from the fabric.
“I said I’m coming!” he yells again. His voice drops lower with the heat
burning through his skin, panic and irritation indistinguishable in his blood,
and he keeps talking, lower and just to himself, as he struggles into his
pants. “Come by unannounced and unexpected, a guy needs a few minutes to get
ready. Better than answering the door naked, isn’t it?”
“Gray.”
It’s not his name that makes Gray go still with his fingers still at the fly of
his jeans. Even through the door, he knows that voice, he’d know that voice
anywhere. His words trail off into a wordless grumble and he turns towards the
door without finishing his motion, without even thinking of reaching for a
shirt before he yanks the door open.
It’s not like Lyon has any room to criticize his clothing choices, after all.
The other mage has one arm thrown out against the frame of Gray’s door, is
leaning in so close to the frame that his shoulders are blocking the brighter
light from the hallway. He’s only half-dressed himself, though he has achieved
the pants Gray didn’t quite manage and a jacket that offers the pretense of
modesty. It’s still open in the front, though, baring enough skin that Gray’s
eyes jump down from Lyon’s smirk to catch at his shoulder, at the edge of blue
just visible under his coat, before the other mage speaks.
“You didn’t have to put on clothes for me.” He’s smiling when Gray’s eyes snap
back up to his eyes, a tiny collection of tension at the corner of his mouth
that’s as good as a full-blown grin from someone else.
“I didn’t know it was you,” Gray snaps, but he steps out of the doorway anyway,
turns his back and leaves Lyon to push the door shut himself. “If you had
started with that I would have come to the door faster.” He hesitates over his
clothes -- it seems contrary to his own statement to finish with his jeans, but
taking them off is a little more forward than he’s ready for. He’s not actually
sure why Lyon’s here, after all, though he has some pretty detailed ideas and
Lyon’s smile is offering corroboration for them all. He’s still got his hands
at the edge of the denim, frowning in unconscious concentration at the problem,
when there’s the sound of fabric shifting from behind him.
“I hope you don’t mind if I make myself comfortable,” Lyon says, and Gray
glances back just as he drapes his coat over the back of a chair. That’s a
pretty clear invitation after all, even before Lyon looks up to catch Gray’s
lingering gaze. “You don’t need to stand on ceremony with me, of all people.”
Gray moves fast, not sure if he’s responding to the taunt or the invitation in
Lyon’s words. It doesn’t matter. He is more comfortable as soon as he’s shed
his jeans and kicked them back to the corner; the momentary flicker of self-
consciousness is easy to ignore after years of practice, years of becoming more
comfortable in his own skin than anything else.
He thinks, at first, that Lyon might follow his example with the rest of his
clothing too. But he doesn’t complain when the other mage steps forward
instead, doesn’t move away when Lyon tips his head like he’s considering a
problem or admiring a particularly nice example of magic. Even when Lyon’s
fingers brush icy against his skin he doesn’t pull away, although the chill
draws a sharp, startled breath out of him.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Lyon says. He’s watching his fingers drag
over Gray’s skin; Gray can feel the prickle of ice forming in the wake of his
touch, crystalline patterns that melt nearly immediately. He doesn’t look away
from Lyon’s face, but he lets some of his usual body heat fade into chill under
Lyon’s touch. The other mage starts to smile as he sees the patterns under his
fingertips lingering, shifts his palm to rest his whole hand against Gray’s
stomach before he looks up. His mouth is still pulled tight at the corner,
curving up into a smile that touches the dark of his eyes starry with
suggestion.
Gray lifts his hand, curls his fingers in against the bare skin of Lyon’s
waist. The other mage is warm to the touch; Gray leans in closer, keeps his
eyes fixed on the corner of Lyon’s mouth. “If I do I’ll tell you,” he promises,
and Lyon laughs in the moment before Gray’s lips touch his. His mouth is as
warm as his skin, as warm as Gray remembers, and when Lyon takes a half-step
closer the ice frosting under his fingers melts away until there’s just his
skin pressed in against Gray’s. They’re both warm, this close, even warmer when
Lyon’s free hand flattens in against Gray’s shoulder to pull him in nearer
still. Gray shuts his eyes for a minute, lets the slide of Lyon’s fingers over
his skin and Lyon’s tongue against his mouth pull his attention into hazy
pleasure for a moment of distraction. When he matches his first hand with a
second, brackets Lyon in place by his hold on the other mage’s body, Lyon purrs
so far back in his throat Gray would miss it if he couldn’t feel the vibration
humming sensation against his lips.
“You’re wearing a lot,” he says as Lyon shifts sideways, presses hot kisses in
against Gray’s neck instead of his mouth. Gray is obedient to the unstated
request in that, tips his head up and back while his fingers slide down, follow
the angle of Lyon’s hipbones down to the top edge of his pants.
Lyon laughs against his collarbone, lets Gray’s shoulder go so he can rest his
fingers against the other’s arm. He trails his fingertips all the way down the
inside of Gray’s arm and elbow and wrist, can curl his thumb under the edge of
his pants and his fingers around Gray’s wrist.
“Are you complaining?” Lyon shifts his weight like he’s pulling away for a
moment, he sighs warm breath down across Gray’s chest; then he’s on his knees,
his hand is coming sideways to brush against Gray’s waist and he’s pressing his
mouth to the other’s stomach, opening his mouth so he can touch his tongue to
the ice-damp still clinging to Gray’s skin.
Gray shivers like he never does from just cold, arches back to press himself in
closer against Lyon’s mouth, and the other mage laughs before Gray can pull his
thoughts around into “Yeah, I am.”
“Sorry,” Lyon purrs. He doesn’t move his mouth away; Gray can feel the
vibration of his words under his skin, setting his blood on fire and bringing
his breath too-fast in his lungs, desperate and as anxious as the fingers he’s
absently winding into Lyon’s white hair. “You have my permission to fix that.”
Gray rolls his eyes, even though the other mage isn’t looking at him at all.
“Yeah, I’d love to as soon as you stand back up.”
“You don’t want me to stand up.” Lyon’s head comes sideways, his tongue drags
down over the line of Gray’s hipbone, and Gray gasps sharp and startled, rocks
forward involuntarily in encouragement and in pursuit of the friction he’s not
quite getting where he wants it.
“Oh?” Gray manages, though he sounds more like he’s on the verge of a laugh
than truly curious. He’s never been very good at feigning innocence, after all.
“Don’t I?”
“No,” Lyon says, and pulls back, comes sideways to press his mouth in close
against the tented fabric of Gray’s boxers. The contact is enough on its own to
bring Gray curling in over Lyon’s head, whining like he can’t remember properly
how to breathe, but then Lyon exhales hard against the fabric and the rush of
heat makes him shudder, to drag his fingers into an accidental fist in Lyon’s
hair.
“Okay,” Gray admits. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t want you to stand up.”
He can feel Lyon’s huffed laugh through the thin fabric, for all that it’s too
soft for his ears to catch. The other mage lifts his head an inch, licks
against Gray’s stomach again, and Gray would voice some protest at this loss of
sensation except that Lyon’s fingers are curling over the edge of his boxers,
drawing them down so carefully the catch of his fingernails against Gray’s skin
is more teasing than anything else. But his tongue is sliding lower too,
following the top edge of the fabric as he slides it off the other’s hips, and
Gray doesn’t voice a protest. He doesn’t make any sound at all beyond his too-
fast breathing until Lyon’s hands come down to his knees and Lyon’s tongue
touches against his cock; then he flinches from the warmth, shuts his eyes and
breathes out hard, and when he takes another breath it’s to groan “Lyon” in a
tone that is as much a warning as a plea.
There’s a hum, amusement purring up Lyon’s throat and out into where his lips
are pressed to Gray’s skin; then he shifts, there’s the friction of his mouth
dragging up, and Gray takes a lungful of anticipation in the moment before Lyon
slides his lips down over him. The tremor that runs through him is all
instinct, no deliberation; the feel of Lyon’s mouth is hot and uncannily
familiar. Gray shouldn’t remember this so clearly; he can barely call up the
memories in his own head, he’s hashed over the past so many times it’s
indistinguishable from pure fantasy at this point. But his memory has nothing
to do with this, his blood is surging in waves instantly responsive to the
shift of Lyon’s tongue on him and the catch of cold-chapped lips against his
skin. The tingle in his fingertips says that he does remember after all, as
clearly as the smooth rhythm of Lyon’s motions and the gentle scrape of nails
against Gray’s skin says Lyon remembers how they fit together too.
“Jesus,” Gray says. His fingers are still curled tight around Lyon’s hair; when
he pulls he can feel Lyon chuckle, though the other mage doesn’t draw back.
“Lyon, wait, you should stop.”
Lyon pulls away immediately, responsive to the words as he wasn’t to the pull
at his hair. When he looks up his eyes are endless, wide and dark and pinning
all his attention on Gray’s face. His mouth is still open, his lips parted like
an invitation, and Gray can’t drag his gaze up once his eyes settle on the soft
curve of Lyon’s lower lip.
Lyon smiles, a quick flash of teeth, and his fingers draw tight at Gray’s hips
for just a moment. “You’re shaking.” It’s a statement rather than a question;
Gray didn’t even realize his legs were trembling until Lyon’s words pull his
attention back to the fact. “You want me to stop?”
He’s still smiling, his touch is still lingering; the heat of his hands on
Gray’s skin is enough to distract the other mage, to draw him curling in closer
so he can slide his fingers down against the back of Lyon’s neck, across the
expanse of his shoulders, before he realizes that second was a question, that
Lyon is waiting for an answer.
“I don’t,” he blurts.
Lyon hums at the touch, shuts his eyes and tips his head forward so his hair
brushes ticklish over Gray’s hip and his spine pushes up into visibility under
his skin, like he’s offering himself for the exploration of Gray’s fingers.
“Was I doing something wrong?”
It’s a question, but Gray can hear the prickle of laughter under the words, can
picture the knowing smirk on Lyon’s face even if he can’t see it. He shoves his
free hand back into Lyon’s hair, pulls deliberately hard, and earns himself an
audible chuckle even before he huffs, “No, you were doing everything right.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Lyon asks. He turns his head, pulls his hair free
of Gray’s hold, and then he’s getting to his feet without stepping away, so
close that when he shifts his weight his pants catch against Gray’s length and
drag against him with enough friction Gray rocks in for more.
“I’d rather you were doing something else,” Gray half-offers, half-suggests.
Lyon’s close enough now that he can slide his hands down between them, pull at
the front of the other’s clothes with more intention than grace. He misses
entirely with one hand, succeeds only in shoving his palm against Lyon’s pants,
but the other mage hisses in reaction and grabs at his shoulder, leans in to
press his lips to Gray’s collar and scrape his teeth over the skin in not-
quite-a-bite, so Gray doesn’t worry much about his lack of coordination.
Besides, he’s hooked his other thumb over the top of Lyon’s waistband, is
sliding down to the warmth of usually-covered skin, and while he halfheartedly
pulls at the other’s button he can work his fingers down into Lyon’s clothes,
brush his fingers against the radiant resistance of the other mage’s length.
Lyon exhales hard into his shoulder. Gray can feel the air collect against his
shoulder like it’s liquid for the span of a breath, a heartbeat before it
drifts away and leaves only the tingling afterimage behind. “I’d rather I was
too.”
Gray gives up on the button entirely. “Here.” He slides his hand free, grabs at
Lyon’s hips to push him away bodily as if he’s trying to detach from a magnetic
force. “Get your clothes off.” Lyon’s laughing at that when Gray turns away,
the sharpness of his smile belying the softness in his eyes, but Gray knows
that expression, he can call it up at a moment’s notice, and he
really does want to move them to the bed, at least. He kicks his feet free of
the boxers tangled around his ankles, moves to the desk so he can drag a drawer
open, scramble through the jumble of miscellany within to find the bottle he’s
looking for.
He’s just found it, is shoving the drawer shut after retrieving it when an arm
comes up over his shoulder. “You should keep this more accessible,” Lyon says
from behind him as he tugs the lube free of Gray’s hold. “Or do you not expect
to use it much?”
“You usually tell me when you’re coming by,” Gray says without thinking. Then
he catches up to the question under Lyon’s statement, the implication of his
own answer, and hastily backpedals. “I mean. I can always find it when I need
it. Whenever I need it. For whoever.” He starts to turn around, reaching back
up to take the bottle back in spite of the crimson climbing into his cheeks,
but a hand closes on his shoulder, an arm presses across his back like a brace.
“Don’t bother,” Lyon purrs. The shove from his arm propels Gray forward, knocks
his center of balance so he has to stumble to keep his feet, throw a hand out
to catch himself on the wall. Lyon follows too fast for Gray to turn around,
the pressure of his arm back almost before it’s gone. “You gave yourself away
already.”
“Shut up,” Gray snaps. He glances sideways, at the bed just a few steps away.
“Do you want to move?”
“No.” Lyon’s arm lets up but he steps in closer at the same time, slides one
foot between Gray’s and leans in so his hips are pressed in against the other
mage’s, so Gray can feel the hard shape of him without needing to turn and
look. When Lyon’s mouth comes down against his shoulder it’s deliberately cold,
chilled like his lips are frosted over with ice before they brush Gray’s skin.
Gray doesn’t shiver. He takes a breath, shuts his eyes and lets his head hang,
shifts his hand against the wall to a more deliberate angle instead of the
accidental catch of his first reflexive motion. Lyon opens his mouth against
Gray’s shoulder, licks against the chilled skin, and if his lips are cold his
tongue is hotter by comparison, so warm Gray’s breath slides out of his control
and forms itself into a gasp.
Lyon’s laugh hums through Gray’s shoulder like electricity, or a shiver without
any of the accompanying chill. When a hand comes in against the other boy’s hip
there’s the odd edge of the bottle still against Lyon’s palm, the force of the
hold enough of a warning even before Lyon murmurs, “This’ll be a little cold.”
Gray’s throat tightens into a sharp laugh before he thinks of it, the cough-
amusement more involuntary than deliberate. “You think I can’t handle cold?”
“I’m just trying to be considerate.” Gray can hear the smile rumbling under
Lyon’s words, the not-quite laugh just at the margins of the sound, before cool
fingers touch against the very base of his spine and catch all his attention
away from the sound of Lyon’s voice and to the movement of Lyon’s fingers. The
contact is teasingly light, so faint if it weren’t for the chill of the liquid
catching at Gray’s skin he wouldn’t be certain Lyon’s touching him at all as
the other’s fingers slide down lower, far enough that Gray’s responsive flush
burns off the cold entirely. By the time Lyon’s fingers are brushing against
his entrance he’s breathing embarrassingly hard, his fingers drawing tight
against the wall in anticipation of pressure that threatens but doesn’t follow
through. Gray takes a breath, another, and he’s just letting out a third when
his patience snaps.
“Fuck, Lyon, don’t be --”
He means to say ‘a tease,’ as if maybe by demanding he can overwrite this
fundamental characteristic of the other mage. But he’s halfway through the
syllables of Lyon’s name when the promise is kept, there’s a sudden increase of
pressure that startles his words into a groan, drag his fingernails catching
uselessly at the wall in involuntary reaction to the sensation. Lyon shifts his
wrist, slides his hand in another half-inch, and Gray lets what’s left of his
air out deliberately slowly, forces the tension in his shoulders to relax. It’s
not painful, exactly, just unfamiliar from too much of a delay since the last
time Lyon’s fingers were inside him.
“Are you okay?” Lyon asks, his tone taking on all the resonance of chivalry
even as he slides his hand back, gently thrusts back in so Gray can’t get a
full breath of air. “Do you want me to stop?”
Gray’s not sure if the question is a taunt or sincere, doesn’t bother mustering
the attention to care. It doesn’t change his answer, anyway. “No, fuck, I don’t
want you to stop.”
Lyon curls his finger, drags sensation in the wake of his hand as he pulls back
out an inch, and Gray huffs and starts to shift his weight even before Lyon
rocks in against his hip, presses hard to urge him forward. Lyon moves with him
without being told, comes in close so Gray can angle his arm against the wall,
press his whole forearm against the cool support of the wall and tip his head
forward so he can rest his forehead on his arms. His blood is rushing hot,
soothing unfamiliarity into excitement and instinctive resistance into
adrenaline, and when he lets his breath go it comes out hard and low enough
it’s as much a groan as an exhale.
“More,” he says, just over Lyon starting “Do you --” The other mage cuts
himself off and Gray repeats himself, just in case the first was lost. “More,
Lyon, come on.” He tips his hips back, against Lyon’s hand and Lyon’s hips
both, and this time the one who stutters a surprised breath is the other mage.
It’s only for a moment; then Lyon is shoving in against him, all vestige of
teasing gone, and Gray is so distracted by the heat of the other mage’s length
digging in against his hip that he doesn’t realize Lyon’s hand is shifting
until there are two fingers stretching him open. The pressure carries a whole
new wave of heat with it, rushing out from the friction of Lyon’s fingers until
Gray feels like he’s burning, like the other’s touch is direct sunlight on
winter-chill skin.
“Oh god,” he’s saying without thinking, “Lyon, that’s --” and he wants to
say too much, wants to say slow down, but the heat is melting his knees into
pleasure and he’s slumping forward against the wall and can’t form the decision
to tell Lyon to stop, after all.
There’s damp at his shoulder, a tongue dragging across his shoulderblade, and
then Lyon’s mouth presses against him. Gray can feel the ice forming against
his skin, the soothing cool of the other mage’s lips going deliberately chill
on him, and he’s trained himself to relax into that, that is so instinctive he
doesn’t even have to think about it. His breath sighs out and Lyon’s fingers
come in deeper, and with the ice at his shoulder it’s easier to ride out the
rush of sensation, to wait until it has collected into a pool of growing heat
low in his stomach.
Gray’s so caught in the surge of heat under his skin in time to the thrust of
Lyon’s fingers that he doesn’t notice when Lyon starts smiling in satisfaction,
doesn’t realize the other’s motions have fallen into a rhythm. Lyon’s hand
draws back, and Gray is taking a breath in anticipation for another thrust when
the pressure slides away entirely, leaving a chill of loss in place of the
rising warmth. There’s a moment of instinctive protest, a bubble of complaint
rising in his throat, but Gray closes his mouth on the words so all that forces
up his throat is a muffled whimper, even when Lyon’s mouth leaves his shoulder
and the other mage steps back and away from him. It gives Gray a moment to
steady his weight, shift his feet wider apart and curl his hands tight and
bracing around the inside of his elbows.
When Lyon’s hands come back to his hips the other mage has set the bottle
aside, his palm lies flat against Gray’s skin without the interruption of the
other object, and there’s no chill to his touch at all, either because he’s let
it go deliberately or because he lacks the attention to hold it. That’s okay.
Gray doesn’t need the hint to relax this time, not when his skin is humming
with anticipation and it’s all he can do to resist the urge to rock his weight
back and grind up against Lyon’s hips.
He almost expects the other to breathe in against his neck, maybe lean in close
against him for a moment so Gray can feel the promise of skin against skin. But
there’s just the catch of a breath, a question Lyon doesn’t quite decide to
ask, and then the other mage is pressing against him, Lyon’s length is hard
against Gray’s entrance, and Gray sighs around a groan and relaxes against the
thrust. Lyon starts to slide into him, too fast for a moment before he can
catch the movement back into control, slow the forward rock of his hips to a
careful push. It’s still enough to draw Gray’s fingers tight on his arms,
squeeze his eyelids tight over his darkened vision; his throat tightens, the
air leaves his lungs in a whimpered moan, and Lyon’s hands draw tight on his
hips.
“Are you okay?” Gray can hear the tension under Lyon’s words, all the other’s
usual easy control blown away into tight-wound reaction. It’s as clear as the
fingers on his skin, the way they’re hot instead of actively chill, as clear as
the catching sound of Lyon’s breath at the end of the sentence.
“Yeah,” Gray says, more from impulse than accuracy. “Yeah, it’s just --” He
shifts his weight, forces his hands to relax on his arms. “Ah, it’s been a
while.”
“You feel --” Lyon starts. Gray can hear the hiccup in his words, the way
coherency vanishes as he reaches for words that won’t come. “Gray.” That’s
soft, melting out over his tongue, and Lyon lets one of his hands go so he can
reach around Gray’s hip. His mouth comes back to Gray’s shoulder, his fingers
brush up over Gray’s length, and his mouth is warm but his hand is cold with
focus. The contrast makes Gray jerk, sudden and surprised by the chill against
hot skin, and he can feel Lyon smile before his hips come forward and he
thrusts the rest of the way into Gray.
Gray’s hold on his elbow slips. He rocks forward against the wall, makes a
strange sound that is mostly a gasp and a little bit a shout as all the nerve
endings in his body come alight trying to decide if that’s pain or pleasure.
Lyon pushes at his hip, shoves him up closer towards the wall, and the hand
around his draws tighter, pulls tingling sensation and chill together up over
him. That’s enough to make the decision for him. The tingle of sensation bleeds
into a wave, smooth and hot, and Gray braces his hand flat on the wall and
presses his forehead to the support and says, “Fuck, Lyon.”
“More?” Lyon asks, and strokes his hand down and back up even before Gray has
choked a laugh and nodded, formed his mouth into the agreement the other wants.
“More.”
Lyon’s hand stalls but his hips move, pulling back so he can thrust forward,
leaning in hard enough that Gray’s weight tips forward and against the wall
before he starts to move his hand again. Gray’s eyes are shut but he’s not
seeing darkness anymore, everything is sparkling crystalline like his nerve
endings are spilling into his vision, like his skin isn’t enough to hold the
heat melting all the strength out of his limbs. Lyon’s grip is still chill
against him but Gray’s getting warmer; Lyon’s is moving out-of-time with
himself, his hand and his hips offset so there’s no pause in the sensation, so
Lyon’s thrusts are rocking Gray forward harder into the other’s touch. Lyon’s
breathing is coming faster against Gray’s shoulder, or maybe it’s Gray’s own
inhales that are coming faster and higher in his chest, like he can’t get a
full breath. He can feel Lyon’s pace going unsteady over him, the other’s hand
is moving faster but out-of-rhythm, and he doesn’t realize why for a moment
until he lets out a lungful of air and realizes he’s moaning, faint and far
back in his throat, with every one of Lyon’s movements. The cold is finally
starting to fade as Lyon’s concentration slips, but his hand is stroking faster
and harder up over Gray’s length, and when Lyon thrusts up into him there’s a
burst of white behind Gray’s shut eyes, a sound like a wail in his throat, and
all the tension under his skin shivers into flooding pleasure.
Lyon keeps his hold, slides idle contact up over Gray’s skin until the other
offers a shaky exhale of satisfaction and lets some semblance of stability
reform along his spine. Then Lyon lets go, leans in closer so he can lay his
own hand flat on the wall. Gray can feel his breathing going warmer, hot
against his shoulder like maybe he was keeping his lips more chill than they
would be naturally, like only just now is the last of his control slipping.
Lyon’s fingers are tensing against the support; when Gray blinks he can see the
oncoming release as clearly as if it’s written in the sharp angle of Lyon’s
wrist. He takes a sharp breath, broken into pieces around the steady motion of
Lyon’s thrusts, and lifts his hand to brush his fingers against the back of the
other’s fingers. The ice has only just formed under his touch when Lyon
stiffens and gasps around the sound of Gray’s name. The fingers at his waist
clutch into desperation; then Lyon sighs, the sound heavy with pleasure and
exhaustion both, and his hand goes gentle as the warmth of his breath tickles
against Gray’s shoulder.
“I missed you,” Gray says, before Lyon has pulled away, before he has had a
chance to think better of it.
He can feel Lyon smile, can hear the unguarded pleasure sparkling off his voice
when he says, “Shall I come to you sooner, next time?”
Gray lays his hand on top of Lyon’s, against the wall. “Yes,” he says, and when
the pattern of frost starts to spread under their fingertips, he’s not sure
whose magic it is.
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