A breeze whipers across the points of his ears, singing praises of sins he already knows too well. The stars glitter on the cool, dark water, watching him try to ignore the hot, empty tension he feels growing inside. He swallows hard. His House would kill him if they knew. They would strike every honor from his name and scourge his life from history. None of them would keep his memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the moonlight, he slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around his thighs. He flushes hot at his memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently he begins to swim, as he’s done so many times, and his doubts wash away in the inky-black ecstasy of water over skin. His House is wrong, he decides, as he has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the shadows stir, and with them a fire in his heart. He swims faster at their silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets him in the water, blacker than the night. Every time it’s hard to believe his eyes, and to drown beneath his second look the echo of deep, ancestral fear. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. He looks almost too much like his twin, like a brother reflected across the light.

A thousand thoughts race through his mind, a thousand questions, a thousand dreams, but he has no words. He never does. He fears he never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all he needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. He nuzzles against his lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of silver studs that glitter up his ear. His scent is sweet and dark, intoxicating, like lavender and myrrh.

His lover’s arm slips around his waist, insistently demure, a moonless autumn night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit he needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. He knows that, one night soon, he will give himself over to those charms. One night soon he will swim with his lover back to his distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that black, forbidden sand; one night soon he will break his silence with the sounds of passion too long denied.

When that night comes, he knows, he will surrender forever to the pure and elemental blackness that has haunted all his dreams. It will be a worship far, far overdue.

By touch he shares his loneliness, letting his hands wander, the way they do in the nights he spends alone. Closing his eyes, he follows the long curves of his lover’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; he feels his warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, his lover’s fingers caress his thighs, and he whimpers.

When he can bear to look again, his reflection watches back, mirrored darkly in eyes the color of pomegranate wine. This time he almost finds his words, his simple declaration of his unrepentant need, but they catch in his throat and the still night air.

His courage falters, his mouth half-open, and he pulls himself closer, trying desperately to lose himself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the black-chocolate luxury of his lover’s lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and he looks to the side, trying to fight back his welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; his slim, dark lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all he needs to know.

A breeze whipers across the points of his ears, praising the betrayal he already knows too well. The darkness swirls beneath the cool, bright water, watching him try to ignore the hot, insistent tension he feels growing inside. He swallows hard. His House would kill him if they knew. They would strike every honor from his name and peel his flesh from his bones. Forever they would curse his memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the darkness, he slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around his thighs. He flushes hot at his memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently he begins to swim, as he’s done so many times, and his doubts wash away in the starry-white ecstasy of water over skin. His House is wrong, he decides, as he has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the moonlight stirs, and with it a fire in his heart. He swims faster at its silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets him in the water, paler than the light. Every time it’s hard to believe his eyes, and to drown beneath his second look the echo of deep, ancestral rage. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. He looks almost too much like his twin, like a brother reflected across the night.

A single thought races through his mind, a single question, a single dream, but he has no words. He never does. He fears he never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all he needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. He nuzzles against his lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of onyx rings that glitter up his ear. His scent is crisp and warm, intoxicating, like oranges and pine.

His provocateur’s arm slips around his waist, insistently demure, a moonlit summer night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit he needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. He knows that, one night soon, he will give himself over to that seduction. One night soon he will swim with his provocateur back to his distant, alien shore; one night soon, he will lie submissive on that white, forbidden sand; one night soon he will break his silence with the sounds of his spirit binding to his will.

When that night comes, he knows, he will surrender forever to the pure and elemental moonlight that has haunted all his dreams. It will be an addiction too long in the making.

By touch he offers his desire, letting his hands wander, the way they do in the nights he spends alone. Closing his eyes, he follows the long curves of his provocateur’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; he feels his warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, his lover’s fingers caress his thighs, and he whimpers.

When he can bear to look again, his reflection watches back, mirrored brightly in eyes the color of dandelion wine. This time he almost finds his words, his simple declaration of his unrepentant need, but they catch in his throat and the still night air.

His courage falters, his mouth half-open, and he pulls himself closer, trying desperately to lose himself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the pink-candy luxury of those enchanting lips and teeth and tongue. The words could end his torment, but they slip away, and he looks to the side, trying to fight back his welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; his slim, pale lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all he needs to know.