Chapter 13

Useless, futile, he tried anyway. Because that was all he had left: his love for Justin, and his need to try.

He came around the table. Knelt. Rested a hand on blanket-stripes. Said nothing, because no words could encompass it; but laced a memory into emotion, projection, an offering. Justin on a New York street corner, walking with him, blue-black hair streaked in artistic colorful rebellion. Justin laughing at a window-display of dreadful holiday fashion. Justin before Kris had known anything about his past, no demon heritage or awful ex-boyfriend or family secrets.

Just a day, an average unremarkable day, the two of them leaving a recording studio to wander through Midwinter lights and decorations, eating roasted chestnuts because Justin had bought some to share. And Justin had smiled at him. Had reassured him about songs and his career, and told him he was worthwhile, and wanted to help.