Noam returned to the training wing right before dinner, as Bethany was setting the table and the others were cleaning up after another round of poker—which the dream team of Dara-and-Ames had won yet again, to general displeasure.
“Hey,” he said, shrugging off his jacket, “what’re we eating?”
Bethany looked up at him and nearly dropped a plate. “Noam, what happened to your face?”
Oh, right. He’d forgotten the bruise splayed across his cheekbone, too high off the secret he and Lehrer now shared. Now his hand reflexively leapt up to touch it; the skin there was unusually warm.
Dara was already on his feet, pale and sick-looking. “Leave him alone,” Dara snapped at the others. He touched Noam’s wrist—didn’t grab it like Noam expected, but the demand was there all the same. “Let’s go,” Dara muttered, gaze flicking between Noam and Ames, whose expression was unreadable behind the cards held up over her mouth.
“Are you okay?” Noam asked, because Dara didn’t look okay—he looked like he was sewn together with spider silk, thin and fragile.
Dara didn’t answer. He stalked out of the room, heading down the hall toward the bedrooms; Noam had no choice but to follow.
When he opened the bedroom door Dara was there waiting, a slim shadow cutting through the dark room. He pushed the door shut the instant Noam was inside, a green spark of Dara’s magic turning the latch.
For a brief moment Dara didn’t say anything at all, just stood there looking at him, the window-light reflecting strangely off the whites of his eyes.
“You can tell me what happened,” Dara said at last. He touched Noam’s arm so carefully, like he thought Noam would flinch away the same way Dara had that night on the beach. His fingertips were soft and uncallused from a lifetime without hard work, cool against Noam’s skin. Noam almost shivered.
“I got punched in the face by a fascist,” Noam said.
Dara startled slightly. Then he narrowed his eyes, leaning in toward Noam like he thought he could reach into his thoughts and sift them between his fingers. “What were you doing that involved getting punched by fascists?”
“There was a Carolinia First protest at the catastrophe memorial,” Noam explained, and Dara’s face did something complicated. If Noam had to define it, he’d have trouble saying if Dara looked more exasperated or relieved.
“You need to be more careful,” Dara said, and this time he didn’t hesitate, both hands grasping Noam’s arms above the elbows and holding him there. “What happens if you lose control of your power and hurt someone in anger? You could be killed.”
“I can take care of myself, thanks.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Dara snapped the words out in little bite-sized punches, mouth twisting. “Far be it from me to tell you what to do.”
Noam smiled, despite himself. “You were worried about me, weren’t you?” He nearly laughed. “You actually were.”
“I’m always worried about you,” Dara said, then abruptly let go. For a second Noam thought he was going to say something snide, but he didn’t—just turned away, unlocking the door and letting the hall-light flood in.
Noam watched him leave, and thought there was something else he should have said, then, something to peel back the last layer of Dara’s defenses and see what hid beneath that perfect face of his. But the moment passed, and Noam was alone.