Softly, he starts to sing. He keeps his voice low because it’s deep and toneless, nothing like Dane’s, but the words flow from him as if he’s speaking in tongues, a gift from above he can’t begin to understand. It’s a song he only heard once, but he’s never forgotten it or the images it conjures inside him, Dane sitting in bed and watching the sun on Krish’s skin while he sleeps. Kissing him awake, tender caresses, eager hands, the two of them coming together in a swirl of emotions, their skins blending into one shade, their hearts two halves of the same whole.
His song, written about him, for him, by this musical genius lying beside him and crying into the pillow. His song, already immortal because he knew the moment he heard it he could never, ever forget it
Dane turns in his embrace, staring at him with cried out eyes, and beneath that gaze Krish fumbles through the final chorus. “I don’t do it justice,” he says, apologetic.