Chapter Text
It was, legitimately, an honest question. One Basquiat had been meaning to ask of Tav for ages, and had just never gotten the opportunity.
They’d been just laying together, both in sleep clothes, at the end of another day. Basquiat’s hair hanging still damp on their shoulders after a bath, sitting cross-legged in the bed—in their bed now, their’s and Tav’s, a fact that’s still taking some giddy adjustment—with Tav laying at their side, perfectly filling the rest of the space with his bulk and slow, steady conversation. And then Tav had put his head in their lap, so casually, while they were both still talking. And Basquiat had started to run their hand through his hair, equally casual, and Tav had hummed and fallen slowly silent while Basquiat just kept going.
And it had already become a habit, hadn't it, for Basquiat to open their mouth and have things fall out, especially around Tav. That was half of how they’d fallen into his arms and this fantastic dream in the first place. Half luck of timing, half impetuousness and honesty of speech.
So it’s something similar, when they get around to asking him, “Did it hurt?”
Tav twists, just a bit, to look up at them. “Did what hurt?”
“Getting these.” With the edge of their hand Basquiat nudges Tav’s tapered ear, bumping his line of silver hoops. It’s the same set on both ears: two half up the shell, two in the lobe.
“Ah,” Tav says. For whatever reason, the tips of his ears flush pink. Then, after a moment, he clears his throat. “No. Why?”
“Because.” Basquiat goes back to aimlessly petting his hair. “I’d been thinking about getting mine done.”
“Oh?”
“Have for a while. And my tail. But you’ve got experience with only one of those, so.” They pause, then add, “What would look good?”
Tav makes a sound, something fond and amused. “Anything looks good on you.”
Basquiat snorts dismissively. They resist the urge to flick the back of his head, or make some snide remark, because there’s a difference between playing and being rude, and this whole thing they have with him is still so new. A tenday of everything after six years of nothing. Last thing they want to do is ruin it.
So instead what they do, as they often do, is pivot. “I keep trying to imagine it,” they say, reaching up with their other hand to their own ear, feeling out the shape of it. Pinching in places, maybe not as hard as a needle might, but enough to feel a little something. It’s not like they’ve ever been terribly sensitive here. “How it’d feel, how it’d look. It really didn’t hurt you?”
In readjusting their hand in his hair they brush his ear. Purely an accident.
“No,” Tav says again. Odd, how strained he sounds to say it. He coughs.
Except Basquiat isn’t really looking at him as they squeeze their own earlobe. “We’re not quite the same shape-wise,” they say, “but do you think these would be the same? About here.” And they follow up with a purposeful touch, reaching for one of those middle hoops.
They mean it to be brief, just an indication. That is, until the tip of their claw catches his earring, and the action of pointing becomes a tug. Basquiat stills their hand immediately before momentum can turn the tug into a pull, and they’re ready to apologize out of habit—
Except Tav makes a noise. Short, strangled, between a whimper and a moan. And Basquiat’s heard both of those sounds from him before by now—but this one. This one is very different.
They look down at him—not the besotted sort of way they’d been doing, where they were only half paying attention, but actually look. Tav’s entire face is painted in a lovely sunset-blush pink, all the way down to his neck; his gorgeous green eyes are blown wide, and his mouth is parted, just a bit. It’s a look that’s become extremely familiar. Especially in a context like this one, where they’re already in bed together.
So their next look—because they’re the last thing from a saint, because they’re a too curious for their own good sort of bastard—is lower. Much lower. Gods below, they really must be love-blind, because the tent in his pants is so obvious.
Another glance, back to Tav’s face. He coughs again as his flush intensifies, another obvious reaction. Not pink anymore but something approaching red, most notably in his ears.
His, apparently, very sensitive ears.
Basquiat’s tail twitches behind them, a soft bap-bap-bap against the headboard. And, because they’re terrible, they feel their mouth curling into a terrible, terribly mischievous grin.
“Fuck,” Tav says, in a very weak voice.
And something like a plan crystallizes in Basquiat’s head then, on that one word.
They disentangle their clawtip almost completely, for just a moment, so they can get a better angle. Then, with the tip of their nail, they nudge the backs of those piercings at his earlobe. Worth it, so worth it, to hear him curse again, in Elvish this time.
“You know,” Basquiat says, very low and not-exactly-level, “I’d heard things about elven ears. How they might be, well. Sensitive.”
“They are.” Tav doesn’t move, but he takes a shaky breath. “Sometimes.”
“And now?” They take the point of that one claw and drag it, slowly, along the shell of his ear. “For you?”
No words for a response. Just Tav’s breathing, stuttering and uneven. His body, too, his head in their lap, squirming as though he were pinned to the spot. Like he’s pinned himself, trying to keep his control. As though Basquiat hasn’t already seen him throw all that out the window before. In fights, mostly, but rarely in bed.
Gods-fucking-blood, they want to watch him do just that. Right now.
“Not always,” Tav finally manages to say. He already sounds so wrecked. “But. They are now.”
Either their self-control is improving, or they’re just meaner than they realized, because Basquiat merely hums their interest and strokes his ear again. And again. Tip to lobe and back, as slowly as they can manage, bumping against his earrings on every other downstroke. Tav keeps shifting restlessly between their legs, his whole face screwed up in over-serious concentration. His hand, which had been resting on his stomach, twitches downward—Basquiat’s breath catches—before stopping short. Just above where his cock is straining to escape the fabric, even more blatant than before.
The thought is barely finished before it’s out of Basquiat’s mouth. “You could. If you wanted.”
Tav’s brow furrows deeper; his mouth opens, shuts, opens once more on a vague protest.
“Do you want to?” they ask. Saying nothing of how much they want him to. How much the thought alone is currently setting them on fire. It’s a miracle they aren’t speeding up too much.
“Nm.” He bites his lip and turns his head again, away, like he’s trying to avoid answering at all. His hand betrays him anyway.
“Tav,” Basquiat says, trying their best to sound like they’re really chiding him. And, an additional prompt: a tug on one of the hoops at his earlobe. Just—barely—gentle enough.
He actually gasps. “What do you think.”
The sound that comes out of their mouth at that, practically a purr. “I think I like to hear you say it.”
“Can’t—ah—” Another tug, on the adjacent earring. “Talk. Bas—”
“And.” Sod trying to keep their voice level anymore. “I think I’d like to watch. If you did.”
Tav makes another one of those beautiful new noises. Or, he nearly does, because he clamps his mouth right around the back half. At last he moves, but—and they have to doubt he’s acting dense on purpose—not the way they’d hoped. He just presses the heel of his hand against his erection, exhaling sharp and short on the contact. That can’t possibly be enough.
Basquiat clicks their tongue. “Oh, saer knight.” They change tack a moment, pausing halfway up to rub small little circles with their thumb against the back of his ear. Their free hand drifts, skimming with the tips of their nails down those tightly coiled muscles of his abdomen; and then further, as far as they can reach still sitting up, to brush against the back of his hand. “Don’t hide. Told you, I like to hear you.”
Another one of those wordless protests, something they hope is a last warning. He presses his hand down again and Basquiat strains to follow.
“Show me.” They’re not begging, exactly, but they are breathless already. One last stretch to press their fingertips against his hand, the closest to a push they can manage. “Please, Tav, show me.”
And Tav groans, loudly; and Basquiat has never been happier to have introduced him to laces instead of buttons, because it takes no time for him to shove his pants down. And finally, there he is, in all his glory.
Basquiat swears in Infernal. “You’re beautiful,” they tell him. “So beautiful, Tav, gods.”
And he is, he really is. And when he takes himself in hand and gives himself that first slow, cautious stroke, Basquiat feels a thunderous ache of desire course through their entire body, and they have to look elsewhere, to keep from pouncing on him. Have to turn their attention back to his face, bring their hand back up from his groin to tilt his chin, so they can look at him right. Have to lean down, awkward angle be damned, to kiss him. Tav gasps against their mouth, too uncoordinated to meet them all the way; it’s the sound more than anything that sends another thrill straight to Basquiat’s sex.
The only reasonable response, of course, is to kiss him once more, short and as teasing as possible from upside-down, before sitting back upright. Then they put their free hand on Tav’s here-til-now neglected other ear and start to stroke, in time with the other. The moan he makes in reply is so desperate it rattles a modicum of—well, if not sense, then basic fucking decency back into Basquiat’s head.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” they tell him. Please, please let him be able to hear that they’re serious, that it matters. “At any point. Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
They slow all their touching down to a near-stop. Because they need to make the point clear. Because it’s not about me, they don’t say, don’t know how to say for fear of giving too much of their heart away too early. Because it’s about you, only you. Because I love you and I don’t want to hurt you.
It feels like an age passes before Tav replies with a breathy little, “Okay.” Then, in a voice that will absolutely undo them: “Don’t stop. Please.”
Basquiat can’t find words to reply, just a growl like a starving animal. The amount of sheer willpower it takes to resume touching his ears in the same way, slowly, deliberately, with just a little more pressure as to be insistent, makes them shake.
Tav doesn’t try to hide anymore. And now there’s so much to see that it’s hard to focus on just one thing. The way his eyes close and his composure unravels, little by little. The way he matches the tempo Basquiat sets, his hand in concert with theirs. The way he writhes and strains when Basquiat starts to increase their pace, or tugs at one of his piercings at random. The sounds he makes, the symphony of his pleasure. It makes Basquiat burn all over, sparks their mouth to running, their encouragement bubbling over in the form of pleased hums and soft little sighs of his name.
Maybe he could go all the way to the end, just like this. Maybe one day Basquiat will try it that way. But right now, moving with him like this—their self-control is only so good.
Which is why Basquiat pinches the tip of his ear, as suddenly as they dare—purely on impulse—and Tav actually arches off the bed, gasping, shuddering. The hand on his cock stutters to a halt midstroke, while the other flies up, grasping desperately at whatever of Basquiat he can reach. Which, this time, happens to be their shirt-front.
It’s so easy to fall in toward him, with a breathy little laugh they can’t quite help. Their hair falls from their shoulders in a curtain around his face—blocking some of the view, but hey, not about them—and they can’t help but kiss his cheek when they get close. They also can’t help dragging a nail down his other ear as they shift, and Tav moans, loudly. Such a beautiful sound, not that they could pick a favorite.
Favorite, maybe, but definitely familiar. The memory strikes Basquiat like lightning, of the very first time they’d heard him moan like that. What seems like so long ago now, just before they’d left that camp near the Grove to head into the mountains. Coming upon Tav in the woods, with his back to them, leaning against a tree with one arm and the other doing—well, something very similar to what it’s doing now. In the moment they’d only had the sense to hide, hand over their mouth to stay quiet and unnoticed, before recovering their wits enough to bolt.
And now, in this moment, the recollection makes for positively divine inspiration. And also makes them physically incapable of shutting up.
A tilt of their head, to bring their lips close to his ear. “I should be honest,” they say to him, low and breathy and honest-enough. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so, so long.”
Tav swears, Elvish again. They can hear the soft sound of his hand picking back up; he’s a little up-tempo from Basquiat now.
“Just to watch. Tav, I’ve thought about this for ages. What it’d be like, just to watch you touch yourself. Like this.” Both thumbs, simultaneously, down the shell of his ear, heedless of how they jostle each silver hoop on the way.
His brow furrows; his grip tightens in their shirt. Another tilt of their head and now they can see his lower body again through their hair. Flushed all over, twitching, a pretty bead of fluid gleaming at his cockhead. His lips brush their jaw as he gasps.
“You’re gorgeous. Perfect. So much better than I’d have ever dreamed.” The thought occurs to them to embellish a bit, and they laugh softly. “You should be proud. Had to think of some very good reasons why I could only watch, not touch, in my head. Want to hear my favorite?”
Tav whimpers. The sounds his hand makes are getting slicker. He’s trembling all over now, his expression slipping in and out of a wholly other kind of concentration, slackening, nearing something akin to surrender.
Make it count, says a voice in Basquiat’s head. And they do, steadily stroking both ears with their thumbs while they murmur to him: “On my knees, right in front of you. You’d tied my hands behind my back. Put your hand around my horn, so I’d stay put. Like you knew how much, how much I wanted to—”
The words fail; all that’s left is demonstration. They groan, lean down to lick the closest ear, lobe to tip. Press a kiss there while Tav writhes and pants below them. And when he whines, in a fit of lust-stupid pique, they bite his earlobe.
Which is when Tav utterly loses it. A wild cry, clear as a bell; he throws his head back and Basquiat gets the barest flash of his eyes blown wide and the utterly thunderstruck look on his face; and then all they can see are his hips, his cock, those last frantic thrusts into his hand before he comes, a brilliant pearlescent arc that lands first on his chest, then his stomach and fingers. And gods, it says something about them, doesn’t it, the way their body aches in near-tandem just to watch each pulse of his as he rides his orgasm out.
Desire like hunger. Basquiat has seen it written that way, several times, by some of the more poetic smut-peddlers in the Caress library. The truth of that artistic license, now, with their mouth and their cunt both wanting and wet, is more like starvation. And every part of Tav is a royal banquet—but especially the currently very messy parts.
Oh, but they have to be careful. So, so gentle as they untangle his slackening hand from their shirt, as they guide his head out of their lap and fully back onto the bed. Especially his ears; they take the utmost care not to touch these any further. Then, once free, they make their way down his body—though, admittedly, not before kneeling over his face a little longer than necessary. Part of the show he probably can’t fully appreciate in his current state, they’re aware, but they still want him to know, somehow, just how affected they’ve become. Tav, probably wholly unwitting, makes it worse for a moment, still panting so hard they can actually feel his breath hot on their thigh—
Basquiat bites the inside of their mouth. Focus. As much as this impulse is for them, it’s also, they hope, for his enjoyment too.
So they keep going. Position their body just so, until they’re no longer upside-down, and looming over him for a change. Placing a few gentle kisses to his face, his neck and shoulders. And that’s all the teasing they can bear, before dipping their head low, and slowly licking him clean of his spend. Chest first. Stomach next. Then each of his fingers.
Tav lets them take their time. He’s, apparently, not in a state to do much else, still whimpering and trembling beneath their lips and tongue. Though, maybe he is still on this plane enough to realize the next part of his anatomy to which Basquiat plans to give their attention. The desperate sound he makes when they do swallow him thrills Basquiat almost as much as the fact that they can finally fit all of him in their mouth. Their nose actually bumps his groin; they hum a little on the achievement.
At that, even softening and spent, Tav’s cock twitches in their mouth. “Too much,” he gasps; the muscles in his thighs quiver beneath Basquiat’s palms as he strains.
Well, nothing unexpected, exactly; Basquiat releases Tav with a sigh. Then they shimmy a little further back up, to fold their arms over the decidedly drier territory near his heart and rest their head there, hooking a leg over his hip as they go. The stillness isn’t something their lust can appreciate—their lower body is practically howling with want for attention—but they can wait for Tav to recover. At least a little longer.
In the meantime, they just look at him. Gods above and below, he’s gorgeous. From every single angle. Dusky-pink down to his clavicle, bow mouth still open and panting, feywild eyes half-lidded and glassy with pleasure. Every usual crease of worry at last wiped clean from his handsome brow. Incredible, how good this kind of bliss looks on him. Some possible competition for that rare true smile, the one that’d made Basquiat fall in love with him in the first place.
The smile that Basquiat sends up to Tav now is nowhere near as innocent. “Good?” they ask him.
“Hah,” Tav says, something that could be vaguely on the lines of I think I died but the afterlife is better than I expected. At least it’s affirmative.
Basquiat laughs softly, presses their body closer to his. And the barest change in the angle of their hips as they do, the slightest bit of friction, is beyond tempting. It’s all they can do not to chase the sensation beyond a single slow grind, or to sigh too longingly. But they aren’t so far gone yet, or so impolite, as to rut against him like an animal—the whole thing after the orthon was arguably worse than this for sheer anticipation—they can force their patience further. Mostly.
At least, long enough to ask for relief.
So they still their body, tilt their head up, flutter their lashes at him. “That,” they say, “is one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. Thank you.”
Another little moan of assent from Tav.
“I’d say you should come find out how much I liked it, but I can—”
“Come here,” Tav groans, his voice completely wrecked. Both his hands find their way to Basquiat’s body, one from over his head and one from his side, up and under the fabric of their shirt, grabbing clumsily for their waist.
Basquiat can’t help it; they moan, shamelessly loud. Let him drag them back up to his face, yanking his shirt off over their head as they go, until their knees are bracketing his head and he has both his hands on their hips and he pulls them down into a very sloppy oral argument. And between the force of gravity and Tav’s own blessing of strength, there’s no fighting it. Absolutely no reason for them to want to fight, either. Always like this, with him, for him, all restraint flying out the window the moment he lays his hands on them. A miracle they managed to hold out even this long.
At the first touch of his mouth Basquiat practically sings, and keeps singing: a refrain of fuck yes and Tav and like that; and the desperate way he devours them is so good in its own right; and it’s not long before their words dissolve into delirious moans, until all they care to do is hang on to the headboard with both hands and rock their hips down against Tav’s face as he undoes them in turn on his tongue. He holds them close, drinks them down when they cry out and shake apart at the end, his hands squeezing their arse and thighs so hard as to bruise. An anchor against the flood of fire that consumes them, gloriously, leaving only ecstasy in its wake; they feel their wings bloom from their back and their tail thrash and their toes curl. And Tav, bless him, doesn’t let go, not until Basquiat starts to go boneless on top of him and they have to paw weakly at his hair—no words, just a whine from the overstimulation.
With a last groan Tav’s hands fall away, and Basquiat falls back. First onto their haunches, half-sat on his chest, before they disembark, spending the last of their strength to slide back down the bed and curl at Tav’s side. Tav flings his arms around them and pulls them close like he never wants to let them go.
They lay like that for a while together, the only sound in their room the decrescendo of their breathing as both of them come back down. Basquiat puts their head on Tav’s chest again, listening to the percussion of his heartbeat. Reveling in how warm he is against their cheek. When Tav recovers his faculty of speech—miracle of miracles whenever he beats them to this part—they can feel the rumble of his voice against his ribs.
“Holy shit.”
And Basquiat absolutely can’t suppress the bubble of laughter that bursts on those words.
“I deserved that,” he goes on. His voice is still sex-raw, with an incredulous air to it. “That ‘good’.”
Basquiat snickers, blows a little air through their nose. “Turnabout and fair play,” they reply, before they lean up and kiss his cheek.
Tav squeezes them close again. Leans down to kiss them on the mouth, slowly, the first proper kiss they’ve had since the whole thing started. “You’re terrifying, you know,” he mumbles when he breaks away for air.
A wordless agreement, another kiss. Then, a mischievous little hum, and the teasing reply: “I can always be worse, if you like.”
Oh, the little shiver they feel from him in response. It makes them grin, makes them want to kiss him again—but just before they make contact, they clock the renewed focus in his face. The kind of look that means he’s trying, and struggling, to find words for something important.
“Take your time,” they tell him. They bump noses with him, and put a hand on his face, running their thumb along the line of his cheekbone. “Doesn’t have to be elegant.”
Tav snorts. “Not in danger of that,” he says. He turns his head in toward their palm and presses a kiss there. And then slowly, haltingly, he goes on. “That was…new doesn’t describe it.” He laughs, something bordering helpless. “Was I loud? I was, wasn’t I.”
“I liked it, though,” Basquiat insists, punctuating with another kiss. “I liked hearing you. And watching you. Quite a lot, if it wasn’t obvious.”
“I don’t usually…” There’s still that flush on his face, the tips of those lovely ears still burning.
They have to prod. “Usually…?”
“Usually I have a better grip on my…reactions.” The look on his face, the crease between his brows and the twist of his mouth—why, he almost looks embarrassed.
Hells’ bloody teeth, but he’s cute like this. If they weren’t already so in love with him, they’d be in decent danger of falling from that look alone. The words dance on their tongue, ready once again to fall out too early.
Basquiat bites them back, but barely. “But you liked it,” they blurt instead. “Right? I thought.”
Tav splutters. “Liked—liked it?”
And here come more words tumbling out, overcompensation, a useless little flood. “If you liked it, and I liked it, then what’s the harm?”
“Liked it,” Tav repeats. He’s shaking his head, mouth hanging open.
“I—” Basquiat takes a deep breath, pivots once more around those dangerous three-little-words. “I like giving you pleasure. I like making you happy. However that happens. And—I don’t just mean with sex, but…” They trail off with their own sheepish little shrug. “You know. I mean it. And I liked it. All of it. All of you,” they add, without quite meaning to do so—just a slip of the heart on their tongue—and they feel heat flare in their own face.
Tav might not even notice. He just keeps shaking his head. “Liked—Bas. I don’t think I’ve ever—in a century, in my whole damn life, I don’t think I’ve ever—” He breathes deeply and then finally says, “I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life.”
The blunt admission steals Basquiat’s breath, punches a soft, disbelieving laugh from their chest. “Keep talking like that,” they say to Tav, “and you’ll make me even more egotistical than you already think I am.”
And even though they follow that with a kiss—even though it’s clearly a joke—Tav pulls back first with an exasperated noise. “You are the least egotistical person I know,” he says. “And I hate when you talk yourself down like that.”
“Oh, Tav—”
“I’m serious.” And he is now, blatantly so; his eyes on them are blazing, fierce and sure and stormy, and any attempt at further protest abandons Basquiat’s lungs with an exhale. “You blew my mind, okay? You do all the time. Like no one else has. Ever.”
He’s so good. He’s so unbelievably kind and caring and just—no other word than good, to the core of him. So much better than Basquiat ever thought they could find, than they deserve. And gods, all they ever want to do is look up at him just like this, not caring how foolishly lovestruck they must look to him, and be looked at by him like this, and hold him and be held by him until the end of the world. And then again, even after.
“And.” Tav’s voice slips a little lower. “Now I have to figure out how to return the favor.”
Alright, maybe they want to do more than just hold him, sometimes. Quite a bit more. Even though—especially because, actually, of how that insinuation makes them blush even harder.
Tav, the beautiful bastard, starts to grin. Deliberately pushes his tone into that dark and dangerous territory that he knows—by Basquiat’s own admission—drives them fucking wild. “You mentioned tying your hands?”
Oh, no way in nine hells are they letting him get that advantage over them. Not yet, anyway.
Basquiat bites their lip around one last little swooning noise, and then they ask, as sweetly as they can, “Before or after I get to do this again?”
Of course they don’t wait for his answer. Instead they put their hands to his face, touch the very tip of a nail to both ears, just above the first set of piercings. A point, not a tug. A threat, and a promise. And then Tav makes one of those beautiful, helpless sounds, and they lean up closer to kiss him, again and again, until it doesn’t matter whether either of them have any words or not.
———
The next morning over breakfast Gale comes to both of them and presents them with a large copper medallion emblazoned with a pair of obscenely plush lips. Basquiat is the one to take it from him, turning it over in their hands. It’s warmer to the touch than it should be—clearly flush with a fresh enchantment.
“With what spell?” they ask.
Gale makes a face, something tight-lipped, like he’s trying not to burst into laughter—or run away screaming. “Silence.”
The last of Tav’s bread falls to his plate as he buries his face in both hands.
Basquiat grips the medallion tightly and forces as much a smile as they can through their own scorching embarrassment. “Thank you. So much.”
“Whenever you need to activate it—”
“No-no.” Basquiat leans up and over the table and shoos Gale off with a frantic wave of their arms. “You know I can figure it out. Thank-you-so-much-goodbye.”
Blessedly, Gale takes the hint and scarpers off back toward the bar. Basquiat sinks back into sitting, heaving an enormous breath as they do so. One stolen glance at Tav beside them—still covering his face, but the tips of his ears are quite visible. Bright, fiery red, to match his hair.
“Knock me out,” he mumbles, barely audible. “Just—right now. Please.”
“It’s for me,” Basquiat bleats back. “You—he’s—this must’ve taken days. From the first night we were together.”
Tav just groans—some oath in Elvish, maybe—and sinks lower in his seat like he’s trying his damnedest to shrink down through the floor. And gods, Basquiat wants to disappear with him. All the mortification from being yelled at through the door by Shadowheart on that first night returns at high intensity, and they wish, just as they had done then, that they could be quieter without help. A thought that the medallion picks up on at once; the metal turns cold in Basquiat’s hand, attuning to the flash desire, and in a split second they slap the thing down on the table before it can fully activate.
For a long, long moment they just stare at the gift, silent amidst the rest of Elfsong’s morning bustle. Tav doesn’t say anything either. In the meantime Basquiat’s brain churns and pivots.
Pivot, pivot, pivot. Land on a joke.
Basquiat leans in to Tav to try to make one. What comes out is pretty weak. “Hey. You know what this means, right.”
Another miserable groan from Tav. “No.”
“Means I don’t have to ask you to keep me quiet anymore.”
It takes a minute. Then Tav snaps up, so suddenly that his chair scrapes across the floor and Basquiat nearly startles out of their own skin. “Tav—”
They catch a glimpse of his face, still blazing bright, but with eyes wild and glittering. “I should thank him,” Tav says aloud, and then he’s off before Basquiat can say another word.