There must have been something in the air that night. It was the only explanation – the only one that made even the smallest lick of sense anyway – for the feeling of timelessness that descended upon them when the boy leaned forward to kiss him. For a moment, he imagined himself back in bed with one of his innumerable, faceless patrons who proclaimed him beautiful with the fervor of madmen, their fingers woven through his hair like inflexible thread, and loosed a startled sound from the back of his throat. They never kissed him with such unrepentant sweetness though. No, this was a kiss for which he had become intimately familiar with in an altogether different way. Indeed, he could still remember the page and paragraph, could still imagine the beautifully illustrated pictures, and recite the words from the bottom of his heart. This was the kiss of those with the purest of intentions, and the greatest of heart.
Alcuin should know; he mastered the technique long ago.
Motivated by the very same instinct that made him one of the most sought after courtesans on the market, he curled the crook of his elbow round the nape of his companion's neck and turned on his side until he leaned above the boy on the bed. It was a rhythm he was familiar with, like slow dancing with shadows. “Celeste...” It was the first time he had ever spoken the boy's true name. It sounded like a prayer. A pure, white dove circling the stone walls of the shrine before vanishing amidst a clear blue sky. Alcuin wet lips gone dry with the taste of him, and dipped down to capture another taste.