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Sometimes, while they’re waiting for Duke at the end of the night, they do this: Audrey will kiss each of his toes, press his heart center with the ball of her thumb, run her palms up his calves, cup his thighs with her hands, bracket his bony hips with her knees, laughing.
She touches him.
Sometimes, while Duke’s calling cabs for the last few drunken stragglers, they do this: Nathan sucks each of her fingers, kisses the pulse at her wrist, runs his marveling hands up her arms, slides sure palms down the curve of her back, pulls her close at the hips as she straddles his waist, smiling.
He touches her.
Duke calls it meditation, Wournos style: the give and take of skin on skin, the way Audrey’s touch grounds him, pushes through the unfeeling, wakens his nerves with care, with attention. Brings him focus, and joy.
Sometimes, they light the warmer under Duke’s favorite oil, let the scent of dragon’s blood fill their apartment. Audrey dips her fingers and works the heat into his shoulders, kneading out knots he hasn’t been able to feel, until now.
He and Parker could do this for hours. They’re not pushing toward, there’s no exact goal -- or, rather, this is the goal: To slow down and be. To touch, and be touched. To savor sensation, let it seep like the oil down through his pores, let it settle where Troubles don't know how to reach.
Sometimes, when they do this, Nathan forgets that his skin is a boundary; forgets the limitations of broken, Troubled bodies; remembers the textures of pain and of pleasure. Imagines that if Audrey pushes him far enough, high enough, he’ll find the way back, find himself whole.
Sometimes, when they do this, Duke finds them loose-limbed and dozing, strips and slides in beside them. Nathan watches Duke’s face as he reaches and takes, pulling Duke closer with Audrey-warmed limbs. Duke tastes of whiskey and honey tonight, smells of soap used to wipe down the bar.
The dance is familiar, now, though no less a marvel: The way they can keep Nathan here, stop him from mourning. Here in their bed, Nathan’s learned to remember: Audrey’s hands trailing Duke’s and Duke’s eyes dark with desire. Here, in their bed, he forgets Duke and he ever quarreled, forgets all the years that they’ve stupidly lost.
They move sleepily, slowly, then a bit faster, the scent of arousal traversing their skin. Audrey wriggles fingers between them, sliding Nathan’s hand lower, placing a kiss, then a nip, at the back of his neck. He’s wrapped around Duke, now, and Duke’s body will guide him, a press and a pull and a shuddering sigh. They’ve taught him to trust them, to watch, and to listen, to read all the ways they say Yes and You’re mine.
Duke touches him.
Duke pants in his ear Jesus. Fuck. Nathan, fuck me, and Audrey grinds up to his ass with a whimpering moan. She’s restless behind him, pushing in closer, her hand on his cock, her clit hot and damp at his hip. Duke’s hand slides around, finds the way deep inside her: she thrusts hard at the touch, her hands stutter, and clench. He can feel it all building, deep in the center, wonders who will come first, wonders whether to care.
He touches Duke.
Sometimes, it’s like this: Duke’s lips on his ear, Duke’s hand in his hair, the sweat on Duke’s chest and the weight of his cock.
Nathan has a secret, one he hasn’t told Audrey, or Duke, not just yet.
Sometimes, when they’re together like this, riding the edge of sleep and desire, it’s not only Audrey whose touch he can feel.
For the first time in years, Duke’s hands call him home.