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What do you think that feeling is, when we touch?

Don’t know, don’t care to know.

It’s... I don’t think it’s supposed to feel good; I think it’s supposed to just be “too much” because it isn’t supposed to happen at all.

Hollis, it’s 3 a.m.

Is it our souls scraping together, do you think? It’s brittle, like charcoal, like it has a thousand holes and a thousand places for them to catch. It hurts, but hurt isn’t exactly the right word because it’s not painful, really. Just overwhelming.

Walt was quiet, and Hollis could feel him frowning.

What does it feel like for you?

Walt sighed angrily and opened their eyes.

I want to be asleep.

Like eating honey from the fingertips of God?

And there it was, the glow of Walt’s humiliation, followed closely by frustration. Adorable.

God, Hollis, it’s like being electrocuted, falling from a height and getting a massage all at once. It feels out of control, like trying to lasso a hurricane. It feels too small and too big, too hot and too cold, and I didn’t even know that last one until you kept me there for more than five minutes.

That was certainly something to explore later.

Do you hate it? Hollis asked instead.

Walt sighed, still embarrassed.

No, I don’t hate it, Hollis. I don’t hate you being... being close. Now can we go to sleep?