Alcuin had always partaken in affection as a dog might scraps at the dinner table, taking only what was freely given to him, and never once did he beg nor bite. He was too highly trained for that, and a great deal more canny than most of his patrons would have ever deigned to give him credit for. Even so, it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to realize that what pricked him most was not what he did but what kept him starved. Time might have ravaged his mind and body but his heart, neglected as it had been, hadn't aged in the slightest. And he found that the hungrier it became, the more it made beggars of his hands and a dockside whore of his lips, until finally he thought he might perish of the yearning.
His whole body thrummed with it like an electric current; gooseflesh spread like wildfire across the otherwise smooth expanse of his skin, the fingers of his free hand curled in the sheets beside his companion's head, and the fine muscle of his arms tensed imperceptibly as if to recapture the moment should it flee in the face of his intensity. His mind was blank save for the pages of that ancient book, seven hundred kisses more intimate than anything he had ever truly shared with any of his patrons flickering through his thoughts like butterflies. Alcuin wondered, dimly, how long his companion could hold his breath.
Indeed, it felt like a good long time before necessity compelled him to come up for air, breathless and panting in the pitiless gloom of the night. He stared in wonder at the sight of his companion's lips, bruised much pinker than they had ever been before, and remembered suddenly the ominous quality of his dream. His fool heart prevented the words from escaping.