A Flowering of Ink by K.L. Noone

Author:K.L. Noone [Noone, K.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

Devon woke up later than he’d meant, felt sunlight across his face and arm, blinked drowsily at gold. The window-shutters weren’t fully closed. He’d left an empty teacup on the bedside table, next to this week’s mystery novel. His phone was plugged in but lying on the mattress next to his hand.

He’d gone to sleep in a nest of blankets. His bed—oversized, indulgent, dark wood in carved waves, mirroring a nighttime ocean—cradled him, solid and sympathetic. The expanses of fluffy rugs wreathed the bed in high-pile darkly rainbowed approval: indigo, navy, mauve, grey, onyx flecks in the weave.

He wriggled toes under loyal fabric. Sat up. Pulled his knees up and hugged them, sitting in the center of the seascape.

He felt…good. Awake, alive, alert. Aware of everything he’d done yesterday—he knew he’d fainted in front of clients, and he knew he’d asked so much of Burne, to call and talk to him when they’d never done that before, when Devon himself couldn’t’ve been the best company…

But. Burne had told him his clients would understand, in a tone that said they’d better. Devon thought they would; they’d been concerned, not upset, and in fact he’d already had an email from the committee reassuring him that they liked his changes to the plans and everything would go ahead. They’d sent that only an hour or so after the abrupt end to the meeting. They’d also asked about his well-being, with apparently genuine concern.

So he wasn’t about to be fired. And Burne had answered his call. And that’d felt…oddly simple. Almost expected. Falling into conversation about music, science, their respective days. As if they’d done that a hundred times, a thousand.

Burne had known that Devon had been…not feeling well…and had acknowledged it, had cared, hadn’t ignored it; but had listened, had assumed Devon knew what to do, and had gently done precisely what Devon had asked of him, which was to be company and to talk and to offer an open window into a world that held flowers upon an island hillside.

Burne had stayed until he’d fallen asleep. Not leaving him alone, because Devon had said I wanted to hear your voice.

He’d heard it now. And that voice was a bit shaggy too, low and rough and wind-scoured; but it sounded exactly right, like adventure, but safely so. Voyages and islands, but with all passengers held tight. Everyone making it home.

Home. Devon sat bolt upright. He’d said—before falling asleep, during the flower-discussion, he’d said—

He’d offered to show Burne his house. Which would imply—

He wanted that, as soon as he pictured it, with an amount of want that left him breathless.

He flopped dramatically back into his pillows. Amused, they held him up. His bedroom ceiling, deep blue with tiny silver flecks, smirked down at his emotions.

I’d like that, Burne had said. And maybe Devon had been very tired, and maybe Burne had only been saying polite words—

But maybe not. Maybe, maybe, he could have this. They could have this.

He had to grab a silver-thread

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