One of the things Callan loves about David are his hands. They're callused from years of hard outdoor work, strong and sure. They are scarred, too, a map of misadventure and experience that Callan traces with him thumb and tongue each night, wishing he could replace all of David's pain with pleasure as easily.

Callan's own hands - hand, now - is soft, pale and elegant. Sometimes Callan regards it as shameful, such flawless skin clearly marking him, betraying his difference, as if anyone needed more of a reminder.

Sometimes, lying awake at night, he cannot believe his own luck.