Unfortunately, this Sunday, I was not in the mood for an argument. Fanime is coming up and I am trying (again) to make progress on First and Last and Always, my long-in-coming Tybalt story. Sunday was the first really good chance I’ve had in almost a month to work on it, and this small, elderly Japanese lady was interrupting my efforts to write, well, gay magical catboy sex. I kept trying (and failing) to put sentences together in the back of my mind, and trying to keep the two thought-streams separate was… difficult, to say the least.

There didn’t seem to be a polite way to explain this to her. Does anyone out there have suggestions?

Amy Vanderbilt is curiously silent on this situation.

If you go out walking, through cold, deserted streets, sometime between last call at the bars and last dance at the clubs, you find yourself caught in that hazy middle, between not-quite-yesterday and not-quite-tomorrow, perfectly alone. The rest of the world fades away, until nothing exists except you and your thoughts and the next square of pavement. You can bring a friend sometimes, a close one and certainly never two, and you come out enlightened, somehow, with this zennish sort of acceptance and understanding of each other. You can bring a lover, too, and that’s even better, because it doesn’t matter if the world tries to keep you apart, because the world doesn’t matter, not in there. The darkness wraps around you, like a cocoon, cold and warm, lonely and deliciously intimate, all at once, and for those fleeting hours, all that matters is the way he breathes and the way he talks, the way he fits against you, all long, soft-sheathed muscles and gentle, supple curves, but most of all the sparkle in his eyes, and the way he tries to hide just how much you mean to him, just how much he trusts you with the secrets of his life.

I spent almost every night there, with Nicky, back when I could call him mine. When he left I spent them there, alone, never trusting the girls or boys after him with that delicate, perfect place.

It’s the most beautiful place in the world, a little slice of Eden.

I don’t know if I can find my way back anymore.

Earlier tonight I was slipping into it, just mulling over my fifth breakup in twice as many months. Three years ago Nicky left, three years ago he walked off into the darkness, and since then, I couldn’t find a stable relationship, couldn’t care for someone the same way, couldn’t find someone who cared the same way. It was all very depressing, a slow and painful string of failures, building over the hole he’d left in my life, and it was nice to find something familiar, someplace to lose myself and let it all wash past me. Somewhere between the park where we used to walk, and that new club, Oblivion, a shy little voice reached out to me, out of an alley, and pulled me back into the world.

A voice reached in and brushed along my thoughts, shy and almost girlish. “Hey, mister… cold night, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty cold.” You barely have to leave the nexus once you’re used to this kind of stuff. It just comes out, automatically. You know it. The same thing happens when you get hit up for change too often… you just shrug and mumble “sorry” before it even registers.

“Can I warm you up? You’re kinda cute, so it’s just twenty bucks. Hundred if I’ve gotta strip. Two hundred for all night.”

What the hell. I’m not proud. Sometimes a cute, slutty little rentboy’s just what the doctor ordered. Fuck him rough and fuck him stupid, fuck him ’till he screams because he means it, fuck him until he comes in your hand and sucks it off your fingers. His money’s on the nightstand. He’s gone when you wake up. No worries, no obligations. “Getting kinda late… hundred-fifty.”

I heard a little sigh, and quiet, pattering footsteps as he started walking behind me. “Can I leave early? Most days I can get a couple tricks on the six-AM train.”

“If I’m done with you, sure.” I reached into my jacket, took a swallow out of my flask. Jim Beam’s a friend of mine, more than I like to say.

He caught up to me and slipped up under my arm, pressed against my side. He felt right there, perfect, just beneath my shoulder, warm and comfortable in a way I could barely remember. Nobody had felt that good in a long time.

Three years, actually.

I turned, just a little, looked down at him.

Fuck.

My mouth went dry in a heartbeat. I wasn’t sure whether to believe my eyes, wasn’t sure whether I wanted to. I swallowed hard. “Aw, shit, Nicky?”

He blinked once, looking up at me, and I saw the recognition flash across his face before he turned away, hunching into himself, the way he always used to do. “Oh… Kris… Hi, I guess.”

I slipped my hand around his waist, pulling him a little closer as I stroked his milk-white skin, as soft and creamy-smooth as I remembered it. “What happened, Nicky?”

“Just Nick now. Tell you later.” He paused for a moment, thinking about it. “You can still call me Nicky if you want to.”

“We used to talk about everything out here.”

“Kris…”

“Yeah. I know. ’salright.” I leaned over, pressing a kiss against his temple. His scent filled my lungs as I nuzzled into his thick, soft hair. He still smelled like almonds, almonds and sweet, clean musk, but gritty, intoxicating hints of sex and streets and leather had crept in around the edges.

“Anything special you want?”

I shrugged a little, guiding him back home. “I don’t know.”

The pale light glittered across the deep, cobalt blue of his eyes. “I think I do,” he murmured.

“Oh?”

“Fuck me like you used to?”

I thought about kissing up his naked spine, about the long, slow hours we spent, teasing his body until it would accept mine, about the long, slow strokes I used to make him squirm in pleasure, held tight in my arms. “Fucking’s hardly the right word for it.”

He pressed up a little closer, just the way he used to, resting his cheek into the pit of my shoulder. “That’s why you want it.”

My fingers traced the curve of his side, feeling the way his muscles had gone strong and hard beneath the softness of his skin. They remembered exactly how to hold him, exactly how to guide him forward and tease a slow, insistent line down the curve of his belly. He felt better than I remembered, even, whimpering as he pressed his hips back against my own. I shivered at the rush of memory. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah it is.”

I didn’t remember the whisper of raw and naked sex in the way he ground against me, or the little metal tin he kept in his pocket, packed with a little glass-crystal pipe and a baggie of fine, pink powder. He smiled up at me, running his fingers through his hair to brush his long, dark bangs from his eyes. “I think I’d like that, too,” he said, flicking his tongue across his lips.

I watched him scoop a little powder into the pipe and hold a match under it, until it began to bubble. “What’s that?” I asked, watching him suck the smoke deep into his lungs. He held it for a moment before he let it go in a faint, ashen-grey coil from his lips, watching it drift into infinity.

“It’s just my Lace,” he purred, looking at me through half-lidded eyes.

“Aw, Nicky. You’re using?”

He smiled and reached back, over his head, stroking his fingertips along my jaw. “I want to enjoy tonight.”

For a moment I could believe we’d erased three years in the short walk home, when I closed the door and he melted into my arms, the same shy, nervously excited boy he’d always been, whispering my name into my neck. I held him close, slipping my fingers down his back. From the edge of his shirt, cropped high, just below the blades of his shoulders, I felt nothing but cool, naked skin beneath my fingers, growing warmer as I felt my way down, to the edge of leather slung low and tight across his hips. My fingers sat at the pit of his spine; a few inches lower and I could cup his rear in my hand. He was dressed like almost any other rentboy, raw and patently sexual, but if anything he felt almost innocent, naked and vulnerable in those thin, tight clothes.

I held him there, just breathing him in again. “I missed you,” I whispered.

He stood up on tiptoe, kissing me gingerly on the lips, and offered me that shy, amused smile I remembered. “I know.” Suddenly he hugged me tight, kissing me hard, passionately, hungrily, his lips begging silently for my tongue.

It wasn’t like any kiss we’d shared before, but I lost myself in the moment, falling in love with him all over again. He was perfect, every way I felt him. Naked, perfect shoulders and smooth, perfect back, rounded, perfect hips and long, perfect thighs, sweet, perfect breath and warm, perfect tongue, all melting into a single perfect kiss, a single perfect pleasure to sweep away the years.

He stepped back, gasping, pulling me along with him, almost giddy with excitement. “Can we take a bath?”

I nodded dumbly as he pulled me along to the bathroom, enchanted by the sheer casual sexuality of his motion… and the faint, ghost-grey tattoo in the pit of his back, a flower with long, smoky petals, coiling up his spine. I hesitated for a moment. This was new.

“When’d you get the tattoo?”

“About a year ago. Y’like it?” He bent over the edge of the tub, showing it off as he turned the water up.

“I don’t know yet. It’s different.”

Standing up again, he turned around and pressed himself against me. “I know he likes it,” he purred, pressing his belly against the growing stiffness in my pants. His arms slipped around my neck as he tossed his head, throwing his bangs back away from his eyes. “C’mon, see what else he likes.”

My hands crept up his belly, hugging him close as they slipped under the slick black fabric of his shirt. “I think he likes all of you,” I laughed, pulling it up, over his head, tugging it free from the thin, pink-leather choker around his neck.

His pants were something out of a wet dream, buttery-soft leather next to his delicate, creamy skin, his thighs left half-naked by the long, bootlaced sides. He wriggled his hips as I slid them away from him, lifting his feet so I could ease the shoes from his tiny, baby-soft feet. “And I think I like that.” He cupped my hand over his crotch, hard and smooth, hairless as a child’s.

I kissed him again, trying to hide my surprise.

“You like that too, don’t you? My turn now.” He giggled, nudging me up against the wall, pressing a kiss against my collar. The button slid open with a flick of his tongue. I sucked my breath in, delighted, as he inched his way lower, only using his hands to slide my jeans away after he’d undone them, and nuzzled his cheek against me. “You have the most beautiful cock in the world, Kris. You know that? It’s such a tasty color. Nice and smooth. Clean lines.” He flicked his tongue against the head, suckling on it for a moment. “Almost too thick to play with.” His lips slid down a few inches, stretching comfortably tight against me. “Almost.”

I ran my fingers through his hair, careful not to pull him down, not to thrust into the hot, slick pleasures his mouth offered to me. I didn’t have to. He made wet, sloppy noises as he worked his head up and down my length, just barely teasing the head with the back of his throat.

“There we go.” He led me to the bath, looking quite content with himself as he settled into my lap, my length pressed comfortably against the crease of his rear. “Sex on Lace is the best sex in the world. Cock like yours…” He made a quiet, hungry noise, wriggling in my lap. “You’re going to blow my mind.”

I began to wash him, enchanted by the way his tattoo moved over his muscles with every motion, with the permanent ethereality of the design in ink and smoke. “I think you already blew mine.” I paused, trying to decide whether I wanted to know. “How long’ve you been out there?”

“Two years… ever since money ran out.”

That deserved a little thinking. “You can’t stop?”

He twisted in my lap, just enough to look me in the eye. “You ever hear the screaming, Kris? Withdrawal’s tough, and nothing ever feels good again. I’m not that strong.”

I shut up and washed him, cuddling him gently in the steaming water. After a while it felt familiar again. Skin the color of milk. Hair the color of walnut heartwood. Eyes the color of priceless sapphires. Even a design the color of faint, incense smoke. He hasn’t changed so much, I thought, feeling the way his spine arched beneath my hand, ready for me to wash him inside, ready for me to make him slick with the lotion we’d always used.

He dried me half with a towel, half with his tongue, kissing beads of water away from my chest. And maybe some of the changes aren’t so bad.

“You still have the sheets, right?” He found my bed, sprawling out across it, like a pearl against the deep, china blue, naked except for that pretty band of pink across his throat. We’d picked those sheets together; they matched his eyes. “God, I’ve missed this. Everything.”

“You’re always welcome back here, you know.” I sat down beside him, the way I used to do.

Something flickered across his face – sadness maybe – before his smile returned. “Less talk, more fucking, okay?”

I ran my fingers through his hair. “I miss talking.”

“Please?” He begged up at me with his eyes, looking at me through his long, dark lashes as he took my hand, sliding it gently down his belly until it circled his shaft. “Three years, Kris. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

I never could deny him when he did that. “Okay, Nicky. Let’s see about pumping something up that cute little butt of yours.”

He grinned, holding my hips down for a moment, and gave my cock another long, slow kiss, sliding his lips all the way down to the base. I shivered, almost overwhelmed by the feeling. “Okay, let’s go.”

I looked down. I was wearing a condom. “Huh… I don’t remember us using those before.”

He looked away, ashamed for a moment. “It’s not for me, Kris… it’s for you.”

I blinked a few times, slowly realizing what he’d said. “Nicky… are you sick?”

“Well… no. I don’t think so, at least. I’m pretty sure. I make everyone wear them, and I got tested clean last month.”

I slipped behind him, kissing at his cheek. Part of me wanted to stop right there, to spend the rest of the night holding him, comforting him. Part of me said I needed him too much to care right then. I’m ashamed to say which part I listened to.

He sucked in a deep, heady breath as I slid into him, feeling him stretch around me, wonderfully tight and comfortably easy all at once. It came back out as a slow, contented groan once I sank into him, deep into hot, velvety-soft pleasure. He felt better through the latex than most boys felt in the flesh, and I began to savor it, taking him in long, slow strokes.

“Harder,” he groaned. “Give it to me rough.”

I nipped gently at his choker, tugging at it, letting my hands creep down his sides to hold his hips. “Thought you wanted it like we used to, Nicky.”

He growled, frustrated, squirming in my grasp. “Damnit, Kris. Nicky’s fucking gone, okay? Streets ate ‘im. Nick wants it good and hard.” His muscles tensed around me, sending a sharp little arc of pleasure up my back. “And you’ve been waiting years to use him like your little fuck-toy, haven’t you?”

Nicky never talked like that, but it was hard to argue with how good he felt. I rolled over and held him down, thrusting harder, deeper. He had such a nice ass, soft and rounded in just the right way. Just built for a good, hard fuck, built to whisper temptation into the animal parts of your brain. Three years ago he always begged me to be gentle. This time he begged me to give in. I didn’t stop to think about it.

“Harder, damnit. Oh, God yes. Fuck me just like that. Just like that. Harder. Get your money’s worth. I can take it. Harder!” He bucked, writhing beneath me, wanting more, needing it.

Harder is exactly how I fucked him, making him to groan in sharp, staccato notes, harder, faster, louder. He was deliciously hot, hot and smooth in my hands, hot and soft and strong beneath my body, hot and tight and slippery around my cock, and nothing else mattered, so I fucked him until he screamed into the pillow, jerking violently as he came. Once, twice, three times I felt him come, smearing thick, warm stickiness all over my hand. I brought it to his lips, and then he was hot and wet and hungry around my fingers, sucking greedily, coiling his tongue between them, panting as he tried to gulp down every last drop.

Even when I’d exhausted myself, even when neither he nor I could come any more, he still worked himself on my cock, his angelic face smeared and messy, his lips half-open from moaning, still desperate for more.

Just another slutty rentboy for me to use.

Somewhere out on the distant, fuzzy edges of the world, Tybalt, Prince of Cats, whose subjects were once as gods and have never forgotten, was begging for a bite of fruit. He made sad kitten faces up at the tall, delightfully boyish girl who held him pinned to the sand, kissing at her fingertips when she finally pressed the crisp white wedge of peach-flesh between his lips. She settled against him, letting his arm curl across the small of her back. They fed each other, stopping now and again to kiss and share the sweet, delicate aftertastes that lingered on their lips.

She kissed him a little harder, pressing her tongue against his own, sliding it along his smooth, pointed teeth. Then she was laughing and teasing, gone in an instant, running down the beach until he ran her down, bringing her to the sand and holding her as though he wished never to let her go.

Cool surf washed up around them, making the black silk of her dress gleam wet against her skin, like India ink against the finest porcelain. She kissed him again, scratching behind his ear, always amazed by the smooth, perfect blend of sleek black cat and golden-skinned youth. He closed his eyes, purring his contentment to her, and the world faded away.

The kisses felt different when the world returned, as light and timid as feather touches. Tybalt found himself in his bath, cradling a lithe little creature, not so much unlike himself. His name was Adam, he remembered, some priceless gift from human folly. His hair was white and pure as milk, and his eyes were sparkling, cobalt blue, bright and full of endless, perfect love. Tybalt smiled and held his subject tightly, pressing a kiss between his ears, remembering those early times. First like a child and then like a man, Adam had learned each day a new saintly virtue, and each night a sweet and secret sin. Most of all, Tybalt remembered the way Adam loved to snuggle close, sliding his naked, perfect skin against his prince’s own, first in innocence, then in desire. But then the angels had taken him away.

The angels had taken him away.

He bolted up in bed, panting heavily as his heart raced to bring him out of slumber. His sheets were damp with sweat, and no one slept beside him in the darkness. “Only a dream,” he breathed, over and over again, trying to calm himself. Adam had been lost to him for half of a thousand years, like the girl whose name he could still not bear to speak. The realization settled in, curling its icy coils deep in the pit of his stomach, and his eyes narrowed to slits. His roar echoed in the empty halls.

Tybalt stumbled aimlessly through the night, trying desperately to clear his head, searching for the peace his dreams had shattered. The hours slipped by, and he found himself before a heavy-grained oaken door, tracing his fingertips against the glyphs burnt into the wood. Chalam, the dreamer, lived there, sculpting the dreams of the poets and the lovers and the blind.

But he could make all the dreams he wanted. Even for the gods.

Tybalt’s suspicions flared, for a moment, and subsided almost as quickly. It must have been coincidence; an uninvited dream was unthinkable. Yes, it must have been a coincidence; Chalam’s dreams were powerful, staggering things. The poets would chase them for months, when he poured them across their minds, intoxicated by their beauty. As real, as powerful as it had felt, though, Tybalt was already calming; his breathing was even, now, and he could almost dismiss the last remnants of memory from his mind. He pressed his forehead against the cool, unforgiving wood, closing his eyes as he tried to soothe himself into some kind of calm.

Like a ghost out of a dream, a girl’s sweet breath – hers – caressed his lips, filling his mouth with its subtle, half-forgotten taste. He gasped in surprise, sucking it into his lungs, and the memory slammed into him again, with the strength of the centuries that had buried it away. Frustrated, he roared again, swinging at the door. He shattered its frame as he slammed it open, filling the room with the sounds of cracking wood and his furious, half-coherent growl. “Chalam! Stay out of my head!”

A small, sylph-bodied boy peered around a corner, studying Tybalt through amethyst-colored eyes full of some absurd blend of awe and expectation, innocence and martyred pain. “I really got to you, didn’t I?” he laughed.

Tybalt’s ears folded back, flat against his head, as his muscles tightened to steel-cable bundles beneath his skin. Ignoring his emerald, slit-eyed glare, Chalam slipped a little closer, his eyes growing wide in enchantment.

He reached out, tracing his tongue across his lips, and brushed his fingertips down the edge of Tybalt’s jaw and along the long tendons of his neck. “That’s so beautiful…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Tybalt’s anger exploded, like a striking cobra, and the prince threw him to the floor, sending him sprawling across the tiles of polished chrome and glossy black marble. “If you ever do it again, I’ll kill you, I swear.”

Chalam made a soft, whining noise as he sat up, reaching into a half-finished dream that lay nearby to pluck the head from a sparkling white rose that bloomed within. “I won’t,” he murmured, turning it over in his soft, long-fingered hands. “I only want one, that’s all.”
Tybalt silently traced his tongue across his lips, not understanding.

“There’s a reason you came here, and it’s more than your hour of sleep.”

“My reasons are my own, sculptor.”

Chalam licked his lips, thinking as he rolled the rose-blossom into a smooth, even ball, working with the slow, confident strokes of a sculptor in porcelain. “You loved them, didn’t you?”

Tybalt closed his eyes and turned his head away for a moment, unwilling to answer.

A flick of Chalam’s fingertips sent the tiny bit of dream flying, and it splattered against Tybalt’s skin, gleaming like mother-of-pearl against the soft-tanned gold, and flashes of memory seared themselves across his mind, one after another, until his knees buckled and he slid to the floor. Adam stretched out across the sheets and gingerly settled his hips on a pillow, looking back over his shoulder, eager and nervous beneath his prince’s hands. He tasted his tears against her cheek, the only ones he had ever shed. He remembered smiles and laughter and long, adoring kisses, sweet and pure and better than sex, all as clear as the moments he’d shared them, and just as freshly, he remembered the pain of their loss, pain that had taken centuries to lock away.

Chalam smiled again, smiled that absurd blend of emotions, as though it were all the explanation he needed.

Tybalt roared and lunged for Chalam, slamming him to the ground in a shower of jeweled dream-shards. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Head!” he growled, punctuating the words with the fury of a god, throwing heavy, savage punches across the sculptor’s face. Over and over he swung, sometimes missing and cracking the stone beneath, until even an immortal’s rage could burn no more, until his fists hurt and Chalam lay stunned beneath him, until one of those absurd purple eyes began to swell shut and the other stared emptily up at the ceiling. He sat there, keeping him pinned, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, Chalam stirred, spitting blood across the floor. “That’s… that’s beautiful” he said, half to himself, as he watched the brilliant red pool against a mirrored tile. “Can’t you see why I chose you?”

“Damn it, no,” Tybalt growled, taking Chalam’s neck and slamming his head back against the tile once more. “And if you don’t tell me, I’m just going to kill you and leave.” His claws slid out of his fingertips, stiletto sharp against china-white skin.

Chalam started to roll his eyes, thinking better of it at a twitch from Tybalt’s hand. “Love, Tybalt. Hope. Fear. Lust. Despair. I’ve never felt them before, never felt those big and wonderful feelings, only little ones. I only want a little.”

“How would I give them?”

“I only want a dream, Tybalt.”

Tybalt’s eyes narrowed again, instantly suspicious. “You want me to make you a dream? Make one of your own.”

“I can’t.” He shook his head, as much as he could without tearing open his throat. “Those are the rules, Tybalt. That’s the way magic works. The maker of dreams has none of his own; the bringer of passion has a heart of stone.” His eyes closed, resigned to it. “Look at me, Tybalt. Closer.”

His skin was crossed with lacework scars, a million threads of starlight woven through the pristine white, down his face and chest and arms and belly, disappearing beneath the soft white pants he wore. Tybalt sheathed his claws and traced one, his curiosity caught by their delicate beauty.

“Every dream I make, Tybalt, every one that goes unfilled. Every one leaves a scar, mirrored from the soul I touched. But none of them are mine.” He opened his eyes again, meeting Tybalt’s gaze, and twisted, showing a long, angry scar across his back. “I left that on a poet,” he whispered, “But still he believes; still he comes back and pleads for more.”

A faint little smile cracked Tybalt’s glare. “That’s the power of kink, Chalam.”

The joke passed unnoticed. “That’s the power of love, Tybalt. He’ll adore her forever, but she will never know.” He was almost begging, now. “So this thing… these feelings… they must be truly beautiful, or why else would he come?”

Tybalt rose to his feet, turning to walk away, and Chalam scrambled behind him. “I’ll do this,” the prince growled. “Once. And then you’ll stay out of my head.”

Chalam had only just begun his thanks when Tybalt spun, throwing a vicious punch to his jaw, and faded the world to black.

Chalam heard the gentle wash of surf against the beach as he returned to the world, underlined by a low, rumbling purr. He was napping, with his head in a soft, warm lap and a soft-furred tail draped along his side.

“Wake up, little dreamer,” Tybalt purred to him, stroking his fingers gently along the spiderweb of scars. “Today your dreams come true.”

He snuggled a little closer to Tybalt’s thigh, pressing his cheek against the smooth, perfect skin beneath, wondering how long it might be, before the sun might kiss his own skin to that warm, golden color. How long could he stay there? Forever would have been too little, but Tybalt helped him up, and they walked along the edge of the surf, in silence. They shared no words, but didn’t need them; he slipped close against Tybalt’s side, content in the warm, mysterious pleasure of his touch, and everywhere the prince’s fingers roamed, the scars would fade away, as though the rules that bound him would never dare to touch the Prince of Cats.

It was magical.

He felt cleaner, stronger, more than he had in centuries, and maybe for all of time, like he could be happy walking this stretch of beach for eternity, melting a little inside, every time Tybalt flashed him another carefree smile, pearly-white and framed by the points of his long, feline teeth.

They passed a pair of footprints in the soft, wet sand, and the dying memories of the place where their owners had lain together in the sand, but Tybalt didn’t seem to notice. He slipped his arm around Chalam’s waist, holding him a little closer, and rose a deep blush in his cheeks with a single word, breathed against his ear. “Love.”

In time, they walked up to a beach-house, elegant and pristine in that long-dead plantation style. They found it filled with the music of sweet-voiced violins, somewhere far away, so they shared a dance, slow and deliciously sensual in its long, effortless spirals through its empty halls. It filled him with the indescribable ecstasy of Tybalt’s bare skin against his chest, and the shame that he was still clothed, hidden from the touch of that confident, naked beauty.

He chanced a kiss, a feather-light brush of his lips against Tybalt’s own. A fiery hunger answered it, a hard, full-mouthed kiss that sucked out his breath and filled his mouth with the slippery-rough caresses of a feline tongue, and strong, soft hands, holding him tight, sliding down the curves of his body until his pants fell away, and there was nothing, anymore, to hide him from the hot press of golden, supple flesh.

The kiss pressed him backwards through the halls, lost in pleasure, until he felt Tybalt lowering him into a deliciously hot bath. Then it broke, with much gasping for breath, and Tybalt slipped in behind him, holding him comfortably in place as he began to stroke him, tracing the lines of long, gentle muscle that hid beneath his pure white skin. He answered, of course, drunk on the pleasures of his touch and the gentle strength that overpowered him so very easily, and he squirmed in his prince’s arms, feeling himself harden in the hot, delicate caresses of the water.

He felt Tybalt harden, too, between his legs, and he blushed deep red, whispering a quiet prayer of desire into the steamy air as his hands slid down and caressed the thick, smooth flesh.

Tybalt whispered, too, a single word. “Hope.”

Lost in the smoothness of skin and the heat of water, they lay there, how long Chalam could neither tell nor care, until Tybalt whispered again, his voice slowly edging itself with steel. “Right here, Chalam, right here I remembered. Right here, I knew that you were in my head.”

Chalam’s eyes widened in horror as understood, watching Tybalt’s narrow to feral, angry slits.

“It’s time to pay your consequences, dreamer,” he growled, “It’s time to you to hurt. It’s time for you to fear.”

Even in the steaming-hot water, Chalam’s blood ran cold as Tybalt slid himself along his inner thigh, and then the crease of his rear, settling into the sensitive little pit at the base of his spine. “Tybalt… I’m sorry. Please…”

“Yes, please,” Tybalt laughed, toying with his prey. “I’m going to like this, Chalam. This is how much it hurt.” His hips thrust savagely, driving him deep into the tiny body beneath him, barely an inch at a time.

Chalam screamed. It was like being torn in half.

He tried to fight back, tried to push Tybalt away, but he was stronger, heavier, faster, angrier, but most of all he wanted it more, and thrashing and kicks only seemed to urge him on. Worse, though, his body answered the prince’s touch, slowly accepting him and turning every vicious, hateful thrust into a hot, fast burn of agony that exploded into pleasure as it began to pull away.

In time the pain began to wear away, softening at the edges until he could almost accept it, almost enjoy the hard, animal rhythm of it. Tybalt must have sensed it, must not have been satisfied in his revenge; he shoved him hard to the floor of the tub, deep beneath the water. He choked, looking back to see that beautiful, sadistic smile, and thrashed hard, desperate to get away, but Tybalt only slowed, savoring the feeling of the stretched-tight muscles playing against his skin.

His lungs burned. Surely Tybalt meant to kill him.

Then he could breathe again, clean, steamy air, pulled up for a single breath, a feeling so beautiful that nothing else mattered, not protest, not escape, not even the agonizing invasion of his body. It lasted for a moment before Tybalt shoved him down again. And again. And again.

Every time he was sure he would die; every time Tybalt held him down for a few moments more. Each gasp of air came sweeter than the last, more desperate, a moment’s respite from his burning lungs, the naked pleasure of life writ large and urgent, until there could be nothing else, and every tiny sensation, from the water in his hair to claw-marks in his skin, raced along his fraying nerves, a sacred, perfect reminder that he was alive, gloriously alive. Even Tybalt was pleasure, stretching him tight and moving deep within his body, smooth and perfect as he writhed upon him, pressing back, deliriously eager for it, as though his degradation were life itself.

The world began to dim around him as he choked, spasming hard as his body slipped from his control, just a slutty little plaything now, and far off in the distance, out on the edges of his mind, he felt Tybalt’s hot, savage climax, and, to his horror, his own, coiling around each other to explode in a brilliant silver light, wiping clean his sins and soul. He looked back, through the graying waters, as Tybalt pushed him further down, mouthing a single word: “Lust.”

And then there was only darkness.

Chalam bolted awake, sweating ice onto the cold stone floor, and sucked in the air with deep, starving gasps. It was only a dream, he told himself, but what a dream it had been, everything he could have imagined, and a thousand times more. He was terrified, he knew, but he’d loved it, too; the splatter of blood on his floor had been shot through with thick globs of white, and he felt a wet, sticky puddle beneath his hip.

He staggered to his feet, halfway between fear and longing, and stumbled to his work. What did it mean? Surely he could ask; surely Tybalt would not mind a harmless whisper in his sleep.

Or perhaps he would. It was pointless to ask; the prince had ruined the tools and sacred names that would let him know, burned and smashed them beyond repair. In the pile of ashes and broken wire, he’d left a single card, scribed with a single word: Despair.

Chalam took it, turning it in his hands, and found the note written on the back.

Maybe you’ll have a dream unrealized, or maybe dreams come true.
Stay out of my head, Chalam. You’ll learn soon enough.
Sweet dreams.

-T

As he sat there, reading, again and again, a long, red scar, jagged and angry with pain, etched itself above his heart.

I don’t remember how I met him, or when, only that it was very long ago, and that I had not yet learned the hunger for men. Somehow we seduced one another, like heroes of old, two horsemen, each circling the other, endlessly jealous of the other’s smooth, effortless movements, until anger and fear bled into lust and admiration, and the four became two and the two became one, just as earth and horse and man and steel once blended into one seamless force of dangerous beauty. We talked for hours across the ether, staving off the loneliness of the world with our desire. He taught me to love my body, wiping away my shame at the soft-edged, almost-girlish curves, and I loved him for it, returning his quiet tribute in bright Kodak color and regal, epic language, my best imitations of the hot, just-barely-innocent styles I adored best.

I dreamed much more, then, still the quiet, beautifully confused dreams of the late-blooming child, and I often dreamt of him. I dreamt of his body, pressed to mine, like a coolie’s, strong and somehow controlling in his submission to my will, and its heat, seeping into my body as I took my pleasure upon it, so wonderfully hot against the cool night air. I dreamt of his skin, smooth and milky against the blackness of the sheets, and in the hot, bothersome nights of summer, I dreamt of him above me as I stretched, catlike, on the bed, egging him on with little playful yelps until his tribute of white, sticky gold had satisfied me.

He told me that he dreamt, too, told me, once, of the beautiful tomorrow that might one day come, the day that dreams and truth might come together. He poured me a thousand dreams of things we’d do together, and I drank his words eagerly, never feeling so wanted before. I recorded them, even, played them to myself at night, when I lay alone and frustrated, sliding my tongue against the roof of my mouth, yearning for fullness there, but finding only emptiness. As the months slid by, the calls became fewer, and shorter, though no less beautiful, but they blossomed now and again into their former glory, keeping me ever eager for the next. They turned into a year, fading again, and I pushed back against the void, wanting more, needing more, but it only pulled away from me, an endless tease that neither let me rest nor brought me satisfaction.

They were beautiful times, though, and his prince adored his lone subject, bound in a nut-shell but king of infinite space. Certainly even the most learned scholars of the court could never have prophesied his fall.

I spent each Saturday afternoon with some friends, in a comfortable refuge where we could indulge in our wordy playgrounds. We called it the the Circle of Scribes, and in it we shared our efforts and our smaller troubles, enjoying the banter, kinship, and petty little rivalries of the group.

I met Henri there, one day, another friendly soul reaching out to another boy another thousand miles away, close enough for hope but too far for touch. We played the ancient game of allusions, teasing each other’s minds from behind a dozen veils, each new story a Chinese puzzle-box, trying to stump each other or hint at our lovers so far away. Slowly, we came to know each other the most intimate way, from the inside out, slowly peeling away the beautiful words, to the literature beneath, and then the minds behind that. I knew his volumes of Dumas before I knew his fantasies, and he knew the reverent touch of my brush-pen on paper before he ever felt it on his skin. He taught me to love the cultured, rolling accent of his voice, half Cajun French and half New England, before the low, feline purr of his sleek Yamaha, all glistening blue and chrome, wicked fast even standing still. He fell in love, he said, with the images I caught on paper, long before he loved the ones I caught on film.

That took time, though, less like two horsemen than like two friends, lovers in spirit but only barely aware of the seduction that washed unheard on the edges of our consciousness. It began, like so many other wonderful things, as we sat over our pads of paper, he with his signature strong, fragrant Turkish coffee, I with the thick, creamy milk that relaxed me so well. We talked a little, in our teasing, half-flirtatious banter, lapsing into silence as the urges came. He had written a story, and a beautiful one, but also a farewell, a mournful cry over a love still wondrous and perfect on the surface, but rotted away beneath, now only a gilded shell over the decaying body of memory and wishes beneath.

“You’re leaving him, then?”

“Yes. I’m happy you caught that. I only hope he will, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll shed no tears.” He was matter-of-fact about it, as though it had happened long in the past, and it surprised me; he showed none of the passion I’d seen in his words.

“It’s okay to cry sometimes, you know.”

“My tears ran dry a month ago, B.T., when I knew I had to write this.” He reached out, ruffling my hair beneath his long, elegant fingers, and I offered him a comforting little smile. “Sometimes it’s important to be able to touch someone.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” It was a weak joke, but he smiled anyway, and ruffled my hair a little more. “But it’s a beautiful goodbye, Henri. He’ll hurt, I think, but in the way of poets.”

He got up to leave, crossing his fingers. “I hope so, B.T. Wish me luck.” I gave him a nod and turned back to my story.

He came over for dinner a few nights later, and we talked of our little troubles over fish and rice, and the sharp-bodied ice wine that he brought with him. His lover was uncaring, worse than uncaring, clueless, never understanding the depths of the beautiful, perfect requiem sculpted for their love.

I’m an easy, friendly drunk, though, and I smile a lot when the alcohol hits me. It’s not the kind of shy, little smile I usually carry; it’s big and goofy, the kind that makes you want to pull little happy sex-noises from, the kind, as Henri says, that couldn’t look friendlier until it was wrapped around your cock. And it’s real. Everyone’s my friend when I’m drunk. Henri holds his alcohol better, but he’s like the ocean, gentle and seductive in his confidence and muted, irresistible aggression. He had never seen my apartment before, and I proudly showed him around, like a schoolboy, everything he wished to see, never realizing the way he pulled me deeper into my drunken friendliness, slowly unfolding my life like a rose before him. He saw first my battered old Selectric and the small collection of calligraphy, but slowly, the show-and-tell grew more intimate, from my cameras to the prints they let me make, then to the half-finished letters I’d written to Val and the sheets I lay on while I wrote them. He even noticed the gentle curves of the toys on my shelf, half abstract and half obscene, leading me with his questions until I told him of each one and its smooth, special sensation, deep inside, and the ways they made me feel. “There’s something really special in a good toy, something wonderful when you’re alone,” I told him, licking my lips, watching innocently as he stalked around me, licking his own. “It’s the weight and shape of it, I think… the way it makes you feel warm and full and wanted, loved and wanting more.”

He was admiring the clear, perfect glass in my hands, I thought, until he caught me up against the wall in a smooth, fluid motion, swallowing my words with a kiss. I’d only kissed girls before, and they kissed as I did, understated in their gentle passion, inviting the slow wave of desire to grow as it willed to grow. Henri’s desire was already strong, though, and his kiss caught me as a wave might catch a shell on the beach, filling my mouth with its warmth, so deep and powerful that I could only respond. It held me captivated as I felt his hand cup my rear, picking me up as his strong fingers kneaded the flesh through the worn-thin denim. I felt his hips through it, too, and the thick hardness that he ground against me. “Don’t feel wanted, B.T., ” he breathed, breaking the kiss. His eyes sparkled in the light, like the brilliant sapphire stud in his ear. “Know you’re wanted. Be wanted. Don’t want more. Get it.”

My breath came deep and ragged as I melted into his embrace, comforted by his words. Through the heavy fog of alcohol and excitement, all I could do was nod, and pull him closer, to begin the kiss anew.

The moment melted into alcoholic bliss, and the next I knew, we were clutching at each other, scrambling to pull away the clothes between us, lost in the tangle of limbs, and he tore my jeans open, hearing the rapid staccato pops of the button fly. A hot, desperate longing grew in me, somewhere deep inside, as he pulled away the denim and the cotton beneath, making little pleased noises as he exposed the flesh beneath, and gave me a little kiss, a gentle press of his lips that slid down and opened his mouth wide as he swallowed me, bathing me in the hot, wet caresses that had filled my mouth a few moments before, as his eyes glittered up invitingly at me.

He brought my legs up, over his shoulders, and gently pulled away from the kiss, letting the warmth evaporate from my flesh in the cool night air as he slid up my body, raising my legs with him, until I felt them pressing against my chest. Holding me there, helpless beneath him, he ground his hips insistently to mine, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, just a faint hiss of pleasure as I squirmed beneath him, lost in the pleasure of his hands at my rear and his warm, hairless skin, soft and wonderfully smooth against my own. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

I shook my head, blushing hotly; for all I’d written and dreamed, I’d never been touched this way before. “Only girls,” I murmured.

He laughed gently, lowering his weight onto me, pinning me beneath him as he slicked himself with lube. “Time to find out how the boys play, then.”

I’m afraid I only remember the rest in quick, sudden flashes, like my body, accepting him so easily, and my screams, sharp-edged with sparks of beautiful pain and unspeakable delight, and my writhing on my sheets, jerking every time he thrust into me, threatening to tear me in half with his thickness. More than that, though, I remember being a warm little plaything beneath his hands, and the way he held me tight afterwards, drifting off to sleep, as though he wanted nothing else so much in the world.

I woke up clear-headed and scared, remembering Val now, and my devotion to him. Henri’s comforting embrace still held me warmly captive, though, so I wriggled until he woke up. “Sleep well, kitten?” he rumbled, letting his long, elegant fingers stroke against my belly, feeling the hard, crusted reminders of last night’s pleasure.

Purring despite myself, I settled back down, pulling his arms tighter around me, and began to tell him my story with Val, of the sheets and the fantasies and our shared moments on the phone, too far apart to share any more. The gentle strokes never ended, playing a slow, soothing rhythm on my flesh, reassuring me as the words became a crying torrent, babbling out beyond my control, and I felt my cheeks grow hot in shame against his chest.

“It’s okay to cry sometimes, B.T.,” he soothed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He squeezed me close again, and I felt his lips press against my forehead, as he might have kissed a little brother. “Sometimes the body needs what the heart can’t have.” I made a little face at him as he pulled the sheets tight around me and slipped out of bed, leaving me to their seductive caresses. As I watched his fluid, jungle-cat walk slip confidently from the room, I realized that they had never felt so comfortably warm before.

I slipped into the shower as he toweled off. The air was thick with steam and faintly spiced with Henri’s cologne, and I breathed deeply of it as the deliciously hot water washed away the sweat and guilt from the night before, leaving only the dull, satisfied pain and tenderness of a body wracked by pleasure. My fingers began to wander as I slumped against the tile wall, exploring the sweet, sensitive places where he had gone before, and I felt a low, moaning purr escape my throat as the night came surging back to meet me, a flush of sweet, adoring pleasure cloaked in the ethereal fog of alcohol.

The sweet smell of fresh strawberries and crackling batter filled the kitchen by the time I broke my reverie and wandered out, wrapping myself in a soft robe. Henri greeted me with a hug, slipping an arm around my waist to hold me close against his side. “I don’t know what you like for breakfast,” he shrugged, “so I decided to make some crepes.”

His hands were an artist’s, I noticed, or perhaps a surgeon’s, slim, long-fingered, and elegant, his touch an effortless seduction of reality, light enough to fold the papery-thin pancakes without tearing them, but strong enough to melt on the curve of my body, as though it belonged there, bundling me into his lap as we began to eat. The crepes were wonderful, such a perfect, beautiful pleasure that I could have sworn them sinful, melting seductively from clean, crisp simplicity into the thick, pure sweetness of the strawberries and chocolate hidden within, catching me in some half-expected, half-surprised pleasure, and I found myself settling comfortably into Henri’s lap, too happily satisfied to move.

He wanted to cuddle more, to savor the way I fit against him, and deep inside I wished the same, but he must have felt my unease. “I’ll go now, and give you some thinking time,” he whispered, gently helping me to my feet, and kissed away a little trace of syrup at the corner of my mouth. “Take care, okay?”

Hours later, I found myself sitting under a lemon tree in the park, dialing Val’s number, over and over, hearing his phone ring, hoping to reach him, but he never answered. I ate alone that night, taking no pleasure in my food, and curled fast asleep, wrapping the sheets tightly around myself, as though their embrace could pull away the emptiness I felt within. Morning felt little better, so I reached once more for the phone, hoping to find some answers to the questions I felt. Val answered, this time, but only a few words passed before he left me to the quiet company of my thoughts. Henri’s answer came as a knocking at my door, a few gentle, persistent taps that stirred up memories of the hands that made them.

He’d come, he said, out of worry; I hadn’t joined the Circle the day before, as I always had before. The sheaf of papers in his hand lent some truth to it, so I invited him in and began to read, chatting idly with him as the pages fluttered beneath my fingers. I turned to his, almost unconsciously, hunting through it for the notes I knew it hid. His story told of a frontiersman, one of those big American heroes of legend, a man who wandered a thousand miles in search of treasure, only to find the wealth he sought in the town he once called home.

How long he sat there I still don’t know, but he let me think of what I’d read, knowing full well the turnings within my mind, and the troubled feelings within my heart, so he waited patiently, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Still the world turns, B.T.,” he murmured, eventually. “You can’t dwell on it forever.” I wanted to protest; a day was not forever, after all. I don’t think he expected a response, though, and one never came. Already he was pulling the warm, comfortable leather of his jacket over my shoulders and fastening a helmet under my chin. He lifted my gaze up, made a few adjustments, and kissed me between the eyes. “Come on, kitten. Let’s go places.”

I rested against his back for a while, as we drifted through the city on his Yamaha, watching the endless parade of street life. He smelled of New England oak in the warm spring rain and fresh, black pepper, of motor oil and sweet incense, and I held myself closer, intoxicated with the smell and feel and wonder of him, before I remembered myself, loosening my grip once more. I wasn’t ready to go there yet.

When lunchtime came, we found a comic faire, stretched out over a few awning-covered blocks of street, and decided to spend the day there, milling through the stacks of robots and Nazis, sweet, sexy schoolgirls and schoolboys, their little romances, and the slimy tentacle-things that tried to tear them all apart. The smell of yakitori filled the air, and we wandered together, chewing on the pieces of hot, tender chicken. We watched costumed dog-boys fall flat on their faces, arch-enemies shouting epithets at each other from across the streets, and legions of different skirt-chasers slapped silly by dozens of pretty girls, all in the fun, affectionate spirit of the day. I even found a new friend in one of them, a tall, svelte catgirl with a wonderfully bent view of the world that I found hard to resist. She noticed a book of Hokusai prints that caught Henri’s eye, so I bought it for him, despite his protests, and he bought me a soft hat with furry kitty-ears, in spite of mine.

Jen bought a big, gleaming black rubber tentacle and chased us with it, just for fun.

After the vendors had closed, one by one, and the crowds had begun to break apart, spiraling off into the night, we found a little French restaurant nearby, the end to our quest for dinner. There was no menu, the waiter explained, only a few questions, and the chef would make what he felt we would most enjoy. It seemed strange to us, but we played along, letting him scrawl notes on our tastes, and he left for the kitchen a few moments later. The chef made me a beautiful Trout Amandine, with golden slivers of almond over the crisped golden fish, and Henri found a lightly browned rabbit beneath a silver cover, carefully glazed with a delicate brandy sauce that drew quiet praise from the waiter, as he left us to our food. It seemed a crime to mar his art, but in the end, we ate in reverent silence, watching each other through the candlelight.

When the last roll was eaten, and the last bone picked clean, our waiter returned to offer us our final drinks, and a bill for the evening’s fare. Henri took a glass of aged Bourbon whiskey, but I remembered too well the fruits of our last drinks together, and drank only Pellegrino. He saw my hesitation, I think, and his whiskey sat untouched.

We wandered a little more in the labyrinths of the city, stopping now and then to feed quarters into the loud, flashing machines that we found, shouting our obscenities at the endless digital zombies and a thousand glittering balls of polished chrome. Perhaps we were too loud, too indulgent of our whims, but also we were too caught up in simple, innocent fun to care. In time, the arcades closed as the bright city lights began to dim, and the Yamaha carried us home.

The morning sun found me tucked neatly into bed, sleeping happily despite its warm insistence. I wore my pajamas, and I found my clothes neatly folded on the chair nearby, but I could not remember undressing, or even reaching home, only feeling the warm, soft leather of Henri’s jacket against my cheek, and the low, rumbling purr of the engine beneath us. It was a pleasant memory, and I stayed there for a while, watching the sunbeams play against my pillow, before I rose to meet the day.

It went slowly, with the horrible creeping pace of uncertainty, and many times, I wanted to find Henri or call Val, and beat against a door, or scream across the ether, until I found the truth behind my jumbled mess of feelings. Eventually I found myself sprawled beneath the lemon tree once more, numbly scrawling away at my little pad of paper as I ate at take-away curry beneath its spreading branches. I called Val, then, losing myself as he told me his secret dreams of pleasure, and we talked for an hour, as beautifully as we ever had before, but then he had to go, before I could speak of my indiscretions. The wind ran cold soon after, even through the curry’s fire, leaving me miserable and alone on the hill as it blew flower-petals from the gardens below across the setting sun.

My sheets felt colder that night than they ever had before.

A few days passed, and life fell once more into familiar routine, much as it had gone before. I ate only mechanically, when I was hungry, as my food lost its taste, and my playthings gathered dust on the shelves, unused, as they ceased to bring me pleasure. Still I wrote, though, still I felt the keys against my fingertips in their beautiful, clicking rhythm, reaching within, into the dark and secret places from which my passions grew, but now the words came with voices and feelings I barely felt were mine. It scared me, a little, and I pulled away, bottling them up until they became too much to bear, and the words came bursting out, time and time again, pouring onto the paper as fire and tears that I could barely hold within.

It felt horrible, like beating myself endlessly for things beyond my control, and it felt beautiful, like touching the fundamental act of creation, like riding an unbelievable surge of energy that I had never dreamed possible. It became a drug, an addiction, and I let it eat of me as I ate of it, pushing myself harder, faster, through the pain and silence into the golden light beyond.

Three weeks passed before Henri noticed, three weeks before the nights of broken sleep began to show, three weeks before my fingers began to twitch as they sat above the keys. He walked me home, as was his way, and bought me an icy little mint-drink, letting the cool cr?me de menthe caress my aching brain. “You need to relax, B.T.,” he said, his arm around my shoulders. “You’re all tense, like a spring wound too far. Hold it like that, and it’ll snap you.”

I didn’t really want to talk about it, though, and just sipped quietly at my drink as he walked up to my apartment beside me. I’d let it break into a mess since he’d last come, with scraps of paper and oily, half-empty boxes of take-out food stacked wherever I could find the space. My bed was a mess, even, littered with bits of writing and a mess of sheets bundled tight where I’d cocooned myself the night before.

“You aren’t sleeping so well, are you, B.T.?”

“Henri… I don’t really want to talk about it.”

He left at that, but came back later with a thick, soft quilt, deep blue and embroidered in silver, and bundled me up into its warm, fluffy folds. “Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, at least you can sleep better.”

I made myself a little hood and glared out at him from under it, but he only laughed. “Admit you like it, and I’ll go away,” he said, looking so contrite that it delighted me, and I leaned out to kiss him on the nose. He made a little face at me, and a playful, mraa-ing noise, like a cat, and the moment erupted into frantic, playful wrestling, all ticklish laughter and blanket-wrapped scrambling away from his grasp as he chased me around the floor.

I lost, of course; Henri’s bigger and stronger, and being wrapped in a blanket is no way to wrestle. So I lay there as he settled above me, keeping me pinned in a cloud of soft, happy warmth. He smiled that faint, satisfied smile, and leaned forward to return the kiss I’d given him.

“Do you treat all your friends like this?”

“Nah. You’re just adorable.”

I glared at him again. “You want something, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m not telling.”

I huffed and thrashed against him again, trying to wrestle my way to the top, but that didn’t work any better than the last time. “I wanna know!”

Henri laughed, ruffling my hair, and slid his arm into the blanket, beneath my clothes, splaying his hand flat against the small of my back as he leaned in and whispered his secret. “What do I want, kitten? I want you. I want to cuddle up and fuck you to sleep at night. I want to hold you, like this, and know, ‘He belongs to me, and I to him, and that is all that matters in the world.’ I want to hear you begging for me, and the unspeakably wonderful things I’ll do to you. I want to hear your words and see your pictures and know, ‘He made those for me.’ More than that, though, I want to love you without guilt, and have you of your own will, not because we’re drunk, or because I want you. You’re with Val, I know, but I can wait. You’re worth waiting for.”

As I lay there, stunned, he kissed me on the cheek and stood.

“Careful what you wish for.”

I was still thinking it over, half excited, half afraid, when I heard the door click shut behind him.

I don’t know how long I lay there before I drifted off to sleep, still buried in the thick mess of quilt, but the morning sun found me snuggled up inside, and I had to wriggle my way out, so tightly had I wrapped it around myself. It was wonderful, though, I admit, soft and cocoony, and I shivered as the cold morning air slipped in around my legs.

I shivered for other reasons, too, even as I found my way into the shower, even as I turned it up as high as I could stand it. The water cleansed away the worry and frustration, as it had so many times before, and the air grew heavy with steam. It filled my lungs and sapped my strength away, until I could barely stand, and I crumbled, kneeling against the cold, unyielding smoothness of tile and glass. Weak, then, as much in my body as I felt in my heart, I crawled out, into bed, lying wet and naked on the tangled mess of sheets and quilt, and lost myself in thought, staring up through the skylight at clouds that went drifting by.

Morning gave way to afternoon, and the sun stabbed into my eyes before I rose again to dress. Hungry now I wandered out, in search of the dull happiness that came with food, and bought a big bowl of sweet eel and fragrant jasmine rice. Henri found me eating beneath the lemon tree, watching its blossoms float away, one by one, on the breeze. He stood there for a moment before he joined me, eating his own meal in silence, as if he understood my confusion, and wished to comfort me, but not to disturb my thoughts.

Jen wandered by, a little later, and dragged us off to distract ourselves. The bookstores entertained us for hours, one after another, letting us browse through a hundred beautiful tales, but she wanted something else, and we followed her through the shopping centers, watching as she wandered from one store to the next, trying a hundred different looks, a hundred transformations of the same irrepressible girl. I made one myself, in the end, after Henri joined her in egging me on. They helped me dye long, bright streaks of racing blue into my bangs, and we ended the afternoon sprawled across Henri’s couch, cheering at Kurosawa heroes until the sky turned red with the setting sun.

I’m not sure, anymore, about what I thought as I walked home, talking things over with Jen. I don’t even remember what she said about it. There are times in life when you don’t have to think, really; something just takes you, deep inside, with a certainty so perfect, almost crystalline, that there’s nothing to do but put your chips on the line and hope for the best.

When I got home, though, I just stopped and stared at the phone for a while. I didn’t want to do it. I think I knew how it would end, and I feared the realization. Denial is comfortable, sometimes, and it hurts to feel it break. But sometimes, you know that things have to get worse, before they’ll get better, so you push yourself against the pain, cut yourself on its edges before you can heal, and I think I knew that, too.

I took a deep breath and called Val.

He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hello, Val.”

“Ah, my Prince. How’re you?”

“Not so good.” I paused for a moment, not wanting to go through with it. I swallowed hard and pushed further into the hurt. “Listen, can I ask you some things? It’s really important.”

He seemed to think about that, at least for a few seconds. “Uhm… listen, B.T., I’m really busy today. I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay? Promise.”

I curled a little tighter into myself, trying not to cry, trying to accept his words for what they sounded like. “Okay, tomorrow. You promise, right? I really need to know.”

“Yes, B.T. Take care.”

Click.

That night, I took a bath, as hot as I could stand it. It cradled me gently, lulling me down into blissful slumber, where even my worries could not reach me. I hadn’t slept so peacefully in a month, maybe more, I remember, and I felt good, cleansed, pure, as I crawled out of the bath in the morning. I dried myself and curled up in my sheets, holding tightly to them as I watched the telephone. Over and over again, I played recordings of his voice, promises he’d made and sweet things he’d said, like sacred mantras that might hold off the silence, until the tape broke and left me to my loneliness.

Val never called.

I didn’t sleep that night, just stared at the phone in denial and pain, until the sun began to rise anew, and I could deny the silence no longer. I cried as I stripped the sheets from my bed, and washed them. I cried a little more as I folded them and wrapped them in tissue paper, and I choked back the tears as I boxed them away and walked to the post office, sending them back to the man who had given them to me. And so the prince became a kitten, signing away his kingdom for a warm blanket and a caring heart.

Henri filled the void, in his graceful, confident way, so easily that I might never have noticed, had I not wanted that comfort so badly. The first day, he only held me, held me for hours, safe and warm in his arms, letting me stain his shirt with tears as he whispered his sweet words to me. He fed me, brought me rice and fish and warm, creamy milk, and he soothed me to sleep at night, leaving me tucked into the soft, beautiful quilt he’d brought me, or letting me sleep cuddled tight against his chest. For days, he never left my side, my rock, my pillar of safety against the frustration that a year of emptiness had built and only now let loose to torment me.

The flood abated, in time, and I learned to walk again, wandering out into the world, still clutching tightly to his side, as he guided me with the arm across my shoulders, and the hand at the curve of my waist. I learned to see again, too, as each simple pleasure returned, like a long-lost friend I thought I’d never see again, and somehow, Henri kept them gentle, let me grow into them once more, made them sweeter than I’d remembered. And slowly, as the time wore on, he let me remember the reasons I’d pushed myself into the hurt, reminded me of the reasons he’d felt like even more than my dearest friend.

It was two weeks before he kissed me. I wanted it earlier, even asked for it, and he’d pressed his lips against my cheek, or between my eyes, but never really kissed me. He wanted nothing, he said, that came from my grief, and he kept his promise, to my frustration. We’d spent the day indulging in all the things that I’d lost for a month, all the wonderful, exuberant pleasures, until we staggered back to my apartment in the tiny, dark hours of the morning. I was using his lap as a pillow, I remember, almost ready to sleep admiring the glittering silver tips he’d dyed into my streaks of blue, when I realized that I was happy again, simply, purely happy, full of that beautiful contentment that doesn’t really need a cause, so I made purring noises up to him, pulling myself up to rest my cheek against his jacket, and listen to his heartbeat through the soft leather.

That’s when it happened. His hand slid up my back, then, pressing me close, up to my neck, until his fingers curled into my hair, and he leaned down to press his lips against my own.

The kiss came like a hot shower, the kind that purifies as much as it cleans, the kind that restores you with its heat until you want nothing more in the world, and your back arches against the torrent, coaxed by the lover you wish were there. I knew that kiss, I realized; I’d dreamt it a thousand times before. I’d dreamt it with the wrong boy, though, the wrong face and the wrong name, and I’d suffered all for nothing. That thought excited me, and I curled against him, pressing him back against the couch in my desire. He only held me closer, letting me breathe his scent as a year of emptiness all poured out at once. Dreams and life blurred together, and I grew hungrier, stronger, wanting everything that I’d been denied.

He let me lead, this time, only holding me close as I slid my hands beneath his jacket, beneath his shirt, and peeled the fabric away from his smooth, perfect skin. I helped him pull my shirt off, over my head, and pushed hard against the heat and the pleasure of his kiss, washing away my doubt and guilt in the strong, enveloping embrace of naked skin, until I felt his pants tighten and press insistently against my side. Only then did I stop for breath, panting heavily with him as I slid my hand down his chest, to set him free.

His hand slid down my back, resting at my waist. “You’re sure you want this, Kitten?”

I curled my hand around him, feeling the soft, silken flesh, and my fingers only barely met, sending a hot shiver down my spine. “For a year now I’ve wanted it,” I breathed, knowing it in that deep, instinctual way. “But I was looking too far away.”

The phone took that instant to ring, shattering the moment, and we looked guiltily at each other, like schoolboys caught in some forbidden moment. I lowered myself gently, sprawling across his lap, and wriggled forward, trying to answer it. I tried even harder to ignore the hot, insistent hardness of his body, pressing against my belly. Henri swatted my rear impatiently, just hard enough to sting. I made a little face up at him, and he smiled, in his predatory, teasing way, but didn’t do it again.

“Hello?” Henri’s fingertips played against my spine, like a wave rolling back and forth from the blades of my shoulders to the small of my back. I squirmed obligingly, tracing him along the long, gentle curves of my belly, and felt him sigh happily. So much for ignoring it. So much for caring. It felt good. Being his plaything was even more fun sober, and I wondered, now, why I’d waited so long.

“Hello, B.T. I’m calling now. You needed to ask me something?”

“Oh, hi, Val.” The name brought a frown to Henri’s lips, but I pouted up at him, and it melted into a smile. I felt him slide my pants past the curve of my hips, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling when he began to tease. “That was two weeks ago, you know.”

That didn’t seem to faze him. “You sound happier.”

“I am.” Henri brought the phone’s cradle over to me as he continued to tease, pulling his hand gently away. I offered him a little smile, pressing back obediently. “A lot happier.”

“That’s good, then. Sorry for keeping you waiting. So, what did you need to ask?”

“It’s okay, Val. I’m better now.” Henri’s hand patted me, letting me stop, crouched on my knees beside him, like a cat, and I rested my head in his lap, taking my revenge with my breath, long and deep, warm against his sensitive skin. He glared playfully down at me, as if threatening a thousand wonderfully dire consequences. “You got my package?”

“Yeah… I don’t get it.”

“No, Val, and I’m sorry for that.” I rested my cheek on Henri’s leg, remembering the sadness, and tried to shrink into myself. Even perfect truth hurts, sometimes. “That’s why I sent them back. You don’t get it. You never did.” I hung up. The click sounded like a guillotine blade coming down on that chapter of my life, cold, hard, and final.

Henri patted comfortingly at my shoulders. “If you want to stop, B.T., I understand.”

I lay there in silence, thinking it over, and a sudden chill washed over me, turned away by the warm touch of Henri’s hand against my skin. “No, Henri.” I traced my lips with my tongue, almost unsure of the words. “I’ll shed no tears. I’ve cried them all.” I reached out, absently caressing his side. “He didn’t get it. He never got it.”

He only nodded in silence, understanding all too well.

“But you, you get it.” I brought myself up, kissing him in a new, intimate way, as he’d done to me a month before. I lingered on it for a while, stretched my jaws wide around it, just barely bathing him with my tongue. “You always got it, right from the start.”

He still does.