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“In Amsterdam there lived a maid,” Andy sang softly into Ian’s ear, light tenor voice pure as crystal. “Mark well what I do say. In Amsterdam there lived a maid, and she was mistress of her trade. I’ll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid.”

He paused. Ian felt the lightest of pressures on the tip of one ear, as if a finger—or a lip—were brushing the curve of skin. Andy stood close behind him, perhaps closer than a perfect stranger should, although Ian couldn’t find it in his heart to step away. “Do you like my song?” Andy whispered. “There’s more to come—a chorus, and another verse.” Ian felt the faint touch again. “Do you want me to sing to you?”

Ian closed his eyes. All along his back, he felt the heat of Andy’s body coating him as would a warm skin cape, sheltering him from the storm without and the tumult that never ceased inside himself. Slowly, he nodded. Please. Keep singing.

“A-roving, a-roving, since roving’s been my ruin,” Andy whisper-sang, “I’ll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid.” He paused. “It’s a sad song, don’t you think? I like the words, though. They fit me. I’ve been a long time a-roving myself, and sung this more than a time or three.”

Ian inhaled deeply as Andy laid one hand on his elbow, holding him so lightly he could break away at any moment. Should. Didn’t want to.

“A-roving, a-roving,” Andy sang tunefully. “Her eyes are like two stars so bright, heed well what I do say. Her eyes are like two stars so bright, her face is fair, her step is light. I’ll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid.” He bent his head to Ian’s, and now Ian knew it was Andy’s lips he’d felt on his ear earlier. They brushed his temple now. “Do you feel the grief of the man who sang this first? Listen. You can hear the chorus of thousands who’ve repeated the words down through the ages, who’ve settled in one spot instead of traveling on with their starry-eyed lover.”

Ian shivered. The hallway was growing cold from the rain outside and the lack of central heating, something which rarely bothered him, but should have caused Andy to shudder. Not so, though. The man radiated warmth as he leaned into Ian, his arm circling Ian’s chest now to toy with one button on his shirt front.

“I’ve another version of the song,” he murmured. “Do you want to hear it, country gentleman?” He half-laughed. “I’ve no idea of your name, and it’s just occurred to me that I have nothing to call you. No matter, though.”

Ian shook his head. Reaching out, he rapped on the wall to draw Andy’s attention, and traced with three trembling fingers the letters I-A-N. He felt Andy watch, then felt the nod of a head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, as if Andy were well satisfied.

“A good old-fashioned name,” Andy said after a moment. “Do you want to hear my folktale, Ian?” His fingers stroked a light trail down Ian’s chest. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

Ian believed him. Though the entire moment had taken on the qualities of a dream, misty and immaterial around the edges, he felt absolutely no sense of danger or threat coming from Andy. The man gave off a sense of peace, of hope, of excitement which Ian had been missing out on for far too long. Wherever their skin touched, he felt a spark of connection.

Ian craved that touch of chemistry. He seized it with both hands and hung on tight, nodding.