Votive at Blackridge

They worked.

The laptop fan clicked under its load. Corin fed audio files through his encryption program while Shohei checked the ledger scans against the copies on three separate drives. A voice from one recording named an account in Salt Basin; another gave dates for false helicopter deployments. Calvin Quade never said enough to indict himself cleanly, but men around him had been careless. They had laughed about invoices. They had complained about moving money through charities. They had treated emergency relief as a private harvest.

By the time the last file verified, Corin’s eyes burned.

“Three clean copies,” Shohei said. “Different keys. Separate drives.”

“Evan would have liked that.”

“He would have liked you finishing it.”

Corin looked down at the final green confirmation bar. “I hope so.”

The pantry offered one last can of tomato soup, the heel of the hard loaf, and enough pickled peppers to make their mouths sting. Corin warmed the soup while Shohei cut the bread with his field knife, every slice nearly identical.

“You know knives designed for emergencies are allowed to make ugly bread,” Corin said.

“I reject that premise.”

They ate from the same chipped bowl, passing it back and forth with torn pieces of crust. The soup was metallic from the can, brightened by vinegar from the peppers. Corin made himself finish his share before letting his attention settle on Shohei’s hands.

“I am not letting you make decisions on an empty stomach,” Shohei said.

“How seductively maternal of you.”

“I have no response that will improve that sentence.”

“Wise.”

The care of it opened an old memory.

At the premiere of Corin’s last series, the theater had smelled of hot cables, champagne, and hair spray. Men in dark jackets had crowded him beneath the lights, directing his shoulders, his chin, the angle of his grief. His publicist, Marcel, had pinched his collar into place and said, “Give them brave. They bought tickets for brave.”

A network executive had taken Corin by the elbow for a photograph, then asked whether he could appear furious but hopeful during the panel. A columnist had called him beautiful in the way people praised expensive architecture: as though beauty gave them a claim.

Nobody had asked whether he wanted to stand beneath a wall of cameras after screening footage of families burned out of their homes.

Shohei had never asked Corin to perform fear, courage, gratitude, or desire. He asked what Corin wanted, then waited for the answer. Want, with Shohei, was not a transaction for an audience. It was a door that stayed closed unless Corin chose to open it.

The laptop chimed softly.

Shohei checked the final hash, then shut the lid.

“It is done,” he said.

Corin’s mouth had gone dry. “All of it?”

“All of it.”

Shohei set both radios on the shelf beside the cot, within reach. His holster went into the lockbox, though the key remained in his pocket.

“If either radio calls, we stop,” he said. “If either of us changes his mind, we stop. No explanation required.”

“Yes.”

Shohei faced him fully. “Are you choosing this because you want me? Not because the relay frightened you. Not because the road is closed. Not because you think you owe me for doing my job.”

“I want you,” Corin said. “I wanted you before the threats, before Evan, before this chalet. I want this because I am here with you, and because I am allowed to choose something that belongs to me.”

Shohei watched him for a long moment.

“And you?” Corin asked.

“I want you too.”

The answer settled through him, slow and profound.

“Then kiss me,” Corin said. “And do not make it sound like a patrol procedure.”

Shohei crossed the room.

Their mouths met with more hunger than the first time, though none of the care had gone missing. Corin tasted salt, tomato, and burnt coffee. He caught Shohei’s shirt at the chest and drew him nearer until the cot struck the backs of Corin’s knees.

Shohei’s hand hovered at his waist.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Can I take off your sweater?”

“Yes.”

Corin lifted his arms. Cold air passed over his skin as Shohei pulled the wool away, then put both palms flat against Corin’s ribs as though learning the shape of him by permission.

“Your turn,” Corin said.

Shohei unbuttoned his shirt, but Corin stopped him after the third button.

“Sit.”

Shohei raised an eyebrow.

“I am making a request.”

“Then I accept it.”

He sat on the cot. Corin knelt between his knees and finished opening the shirt. The scar along Shohei’s ribs shone pale against his skin. Corin kissed it, then looked up.

“Condom?”

“Yes.”

Corin found the packet in his wash bag. The foil tore with a small snap. He rolled the condom down Shohei’s hard cock, taking his time with each careful movement.

“Tell me if you want anything different,” Corin said.

“I will.”

Corin lowered his mouth around him.

Latex and lubricant met his tongue. He took Shohei deeper, one hand firm at the base, easing away whenever Shohei’s hips shifted. Shohei made a low, contained sound and put his palm against the back of Corin’s neck.

“Can I keep my hand here?”

Corin pressed into the touch. “Yes.”

Shohei did not steer him. He simply held on while Corin chose the pace, while Corin watched the discipline drain from his face in small, precious increments.

“You are close,” Corin said.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to finish?”

Shohei drew him up by the shoulders, careful and insistent. “Not yet. I want to give to you.”

Corin laughed, damp-mouthed and dizzy. “You are impossible.”

“So I have been told.”

Shohei removed the condom, tied it closed, and set it in the waste bag. Then he opened a fresh packet.

“May I?”

“Yes.”

The new condom slid over Corin’s erection. Shohei guided him onto the cot and spread Corin’s thighs only after Corin gave permission. His mouth closed around Corin with patient intent.

Corin’s body tightened at once. Shohei’s mouth worked steadily, changing pressure whenever Corin shifted. Corin set one hand against the wall above the cot, then brought it down to cup the back of Shohei’s head.

“More,” he said.

Shohei looked up.

“Harder. Please.”

Shohei obeyed. Corin’s hips rose, then settled when Shohei braced him with a hand at the thigh. Pleasure gathered low and fierce, nearly pulling him over the edge.

“Not yet,” Corin managed. “I want you inside me.”

Shohei stopped immediately and climbed up beside him.

“Say what you want,” he said.

“I want to start on top. I want control of the first part.”

“Good.” Shohei reached for the lube. “May I prepare you?”

“Yes. One finger first. Tell me what you are doing.”

“I will.”

The lubricant felt cool. Shohei touched him with one careful finger, then waited.

“Still good?” he asked.

“Good. Stay there.”

Shohei moved slowly, giving Corin time to adjust. Every sensation arrived bright and exact: pressure, heat, the familiar scrape of wool blanket beneath his palms, Shohei’s attention never drifting from him.

“Another?” Shohei asked.

“Yes.”

The second finger made Corin exhale through his teeth. Shohei stayed still until Corin relaxed against the cot.

“I am all right,” Corin said. “Do not mistake noise for no.”

“I will not.”

When Shohei withdrew, he opened another condom and rolled it over himself. Corin straddled his hips, hands planted against Shohei’s chest.

“Can I hold your waist?” Shohei asked.

“Not hard.”

“Never hard.”

Corin guided Shohei’s cock to him and lowered himself a little at a time. The first stretch drew a sharp sound from him. He stopped, eyes closed.

“Do you want to stop?” Shohei asked.

“No. Stay. Give me a minute.”

Shohei remained perfectly still beneath him.

Corin breathed until the strain turned into something fuller, deeper. Then he lowered the rest of the way. Shohei’s hands closed around his waist, exactly as requested. Corin began to move.

At first, he chose a slow rhythm, rising and settling with measured care. Then need took over. He moved faster, using Shohei’s shoulders for balance, taking pleasure in every broken sound Shohei made.

“Move with me,” Corin said.

Shohei did.

Their bodies found a pace together. Corin felt wanted down to the marrow, not displayed, not managed, not turned into evidence of somebody else’s taste. Shohei looked at him as though Corin’s pleasure mattered more than any image it made.

“Turn me over,” Corin said.

Shohei paused. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want you behind me. I want you to take control for a while.”

They changed position carefully. Shohei added more lubricant, asked again, waited for Corin’s answer. Then he entered him from behind, one measured thrust at a time.

Corin gripped the blanket.

“Harder,” he said.

“Tell me again.”

“Harder. I will tell you when to stop.”

Shohei set a stronger pace. Corin met him, pushing back, taking each thrust with a fierce, helpless pleasure that made the room narrow to heat, breath, and the sound of snow scraping the shutters.