Tillman pulled away just enough to see Pig's face, to look and verify that the warmth under his hands was real. That flash of blue returned, vivid and sharp and Tillman exhaled at the sight of it.

His grip eased and he rested his forehead against Pig's once more. Pig. Pig and not a walking ghost from the past. Pig in his filthy jacket, standing in his little apartment, in New York, in the states, and not some far off city that he could hardly pronounce. Pig who wanted him to be calm.

He closed his eyes. Different sensations floated back to him: the sound of traffic outside and the smell of his shampoo, altered slightly by mixing with Pig's skin, the soft hair under his fingers as his hands moved up and back. The phantom taste of gritty blood faded from his mouth. His heartbeat slowed.