"There would have been," Descry murmured, reaching up to take Saracen's hand and then holding it against his chest. "Back then. He needed a century to be more secure with his ability to control himself, and everyone else needed a century to distance the grief. Needless to say, by 'everyone else' I mean the Dead Men, not the world at large. I could go into the depths of Anton's mindset, but--"

"Please don't."

"--he would rather I didn't." But Descry did reach out with his other hand to take Anton's and squeeze it, mimicking Erskine's unashamed cuddle. All of them were sprawled on and under each other, a tangle of limbs. Unabashed by their need for closeness, even with Anton and Skulduggery on opposite sides. They were still within reach, if they stretched.

"They're alive," Anton muttered back to Erskine, "but for some reason none of them have felt the need to argue about anything."

Dexter snorted suddenly and leaned back against Saracen, resting his elbows on Saracen's side, to laugh. "I wonder why."

Gabe was sitting cross-legged on Corrival's desk, straight-backed and bright-eyed, mimicking Rafe's seat on the bureau. He answered Saracen, but his gaze was on Skulduggery, and the brightness in his eyes was not just out of gladness for him that Anton had agreed to be a leash. It was a sort of joy, still not dulled enough to be called soft, but steady. Enduring. "It's not. Just a one-way street. Why wouldn't I have feelings for him?"