It’s the worst storm I’ve seen so far. And I thought I’ve seen it all.

 

We’ve put lids onto all the northern side windows by now. Neither of them was broken, but the rattle was getting scary, as well as the picture in my mind, of glass shards flying across the room like miniature missile knives. The southern side windows are still not lidded, but they might as well be. They’re covered in snow and frostwork almost to the top. And there’s no sun outside. There’s only boiling, furious snowy hell.

 

The wind… I’ve never heard a wind like this, it’s not just howling. It’s wailing. Wailing, weeping, screaming, whining. Hitting against the roof as if it were pounding on it with a tree trunk.

 

The fire is on in all rooms, but it’s not enough, so when evening comes, I put up heaters in the living room and in our bedrooms. The living room is the warmest one, and we’ve spent the whole day here, going through the rest of the stuff from the attic. Now I’m trying to fix the chip in the pencil-box for Theo. Theo is doing an old crossword puzzle in some newspaper he found in the kindling pile. He can read tonight, because I left the power on, and we have lights. There’s no use saving power now, lights are nothing compared to heating anyway.

 

“Umm. Dean, you busy?”

 

“How do you think?”

 

“Okay. I just thought, maybe you knew…”

 

“Listen, it’s you who’s going the puzzle, not me. I never do that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s for intellectuals,” I say. “I never even finished high school.”

 

“Do I look like an intellectual to you?”

 

I look up from the pencil-box and give him an appraising look.

 

“No,” I say. “You look like a big, lazy Snow Patrol bum who has nothing better to do. But since you’re doing that thing, you must think differently of your precious self.”

 

He laughs.

 

“As courteous as ever, are you?”

 

“You’re not my fair lady. I don’t have to be courteous with you.”

 

“Ah,” his eyes flicker. “But do you have a fair lady?”

 

I give an exasperated sigh.

 

“No. Do you?”

 

He shuts up. Sure enough. If there had been a daughter, there must have been a wife. But family men very rarely join Snow Patrol. Jake must be right, I’m an asshole. Being an asshole is pretty convenient nowadays.

 

“There’s this one word I can’t guess,” he says after a while, almost apologetically. “Maybe you know?”

 

“Okay, okay. Try me.”

 

“The name of the island where the first British settlement in America was established in 1587,” he reads aloud. “I think I knew that, but I forgot.”

 

I wince and almost ruin what little work I managed to get done on the chip.

 

“Roanoke,” I tell him. “Roanoke Island.”

 

“It fits! Now, who’s the intellectual?” He grins, scribbling the word into the puzzle.

 

“Of course it fits.” I sigh. “Because it’s true. You know? Roanoke? The missing colony? Eleanor Dare? Croatoan?”

 

He freezes.

 

“Oh.” A pause. “Right. That spooky old legend. But I never knew it was that historical…”

 

“I wrote a report on it,” I say, biting my lip. “In school. In that last year of school I had. We had to make a report on American history. So I wrote about Roanoke. I thought it was an interesting one. Spooky, as you put it.”

 

“But isn’t it?” He shifts and sits in the armchair Indian-style. Why is he so much like a kid? He is definitely over thirty. Does he think it’s a good idea to talk to me like this? Because I’m so much younger? Or is he really that way? It would be nice if he is. I always liked such people. “I don’t even know it, and yet it fascinates me!”

 

“It fascinates you exactly because you don’t know shit about it. When I started to research it, I found out there was very little mysticism about the whole story.”

 

“How did it go, anyway?”

 

“The story? Oh, classic. Over a hundred people came there one day. Then their leader had to depart to England for food and weapons, because those were in short supply. He got held back because of the English-Spanish war and only returned three years later.”

 

“And they were all gone. And there was some weird word carved in a tree.”

 

“Oh, you remember that much? Yeah, they were gone. The houses lay in ruins, everything was overgrown in grass, and there was no-one left to find there. And there was the word CROATOAN carved into a tree trunk. And they never ever found them.”

 

“Brr!”

 

“Hardly. There’s nothing weird about the word. It’s simply the name of an island. Not far from Roanoke.”

 

Theo looks disappointed. I was disappointed, too.

 

“See, the thing is, they didn’t come to no-one’s lands. Those were Indian lands. Some tribes were friendly, but most of them weren’t. Most historians believe that the Roanoke colony was attacked, so they moved off to Croatoan, where a friendly Indian tribe lived. They accepted the colonists and finally intermarried with them, so a couple of generations later some of the Croatoans still had grey eyes and fair hair.”

 

“Somehow it doesn’t sound romantic to me.”

 

“Well, there are nits in this theory. If you like. See, there’s been done a lot of research ever since then, and none uncovered any traces of white colonists on Croatoan. No European-made things, nothing. And that leader dude – Eleanor Dare’s father, actually – he said that they had thought up a distress sign. A Maltese cross. The colonists were to have left this sign if they were forced to leave. But they didn’t. They only left that word…”

 

I stop. Theo looks at me, expecting me to continue.

 

“And there was that one guy who says in his article that it might mean not what we all think it means. He says that everyone is so sure that CROATOAN meant they were going to that island. And his guess is that in fact it meant that someone – or something – came from there. Something that they thought they had to warn the others about.”

 

“Brr!!!”

 

“Better?”

 

“Oh yeah.”

 

I shrug and get back to the chip. Roanoke… there is a little detail about the whole story that has always made me uneasy. There wasn’t just one carved word there. There were two. Or, rather, one and a half. There was CROATOAN carved in one tree trunk. And on the other tree, there were three letters: CRO. Everyone agreed that it had to be the beginning of yet another CROATOAN. But it was never finished.

 

Why?

 

It bugged me then, and as I listen to the wind outside, it begins to bug me again. Why would someone stop mid-word? It doesn’t take much time with a good knife. If they were fleeing in haste, they wouldn’t have carved the first one either. Maltese cross would be a faster and easier sign to do. It’s all nonsense, I know, it’s nothing, really, but those three letters… if there’s anything spooky about the whole story, it’s them for me.

 

Theo isn’t doing the puzzle anymore. He’s looking at the fire again, somewhat dreamy.

 

“I wonder if we’re going to be history, too,” he muses softly. “One day… maybe when they snow goes away. Maybe when people here really learn to live with it. When the planes between here and Europe begin to fly again… someone will come here to do research and maybe he will be puzzled as much as we are over Roanoke. He will walk around Los Angeles and wonder why people deserted it. Or will he even know it was Los Angeles? We’re forgetting the names, aren’t we. Calling them all ‘towns’ and ‘cities’… The Seaside City, the Northern City, the Oregon Border city. The City, you know? Who even remembers what our City’s real name is?”

 

“I do. Crescent City. Don’t look at me like this. I remember buying a bus ticket here. Moved here back when we still had buses.”

 

“The first year of snow?”

 

“The second.”

 

“And what is the name of this Town?”

 

“This Town never had a name. It’s only four years old.”

 

He looks at me. Sits there in the chair and looks at me, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Somehow insecure. Weak… no, that’s not the word.

 

Vulnerable.

 

And the worst thing is I’m not sure I don’t like it. I haven’t felt this way for quite a while.

 

He wants to ask. I see it too well. He wants to ask who brought me, a sixteen-year-old- kid, to Crescent City. He wants to ask who built this house with its thick walls and armored-glass windows. He wants to ask whose shirt I’m wearing right now, a warm checkered flannel shirt that’s at least three sizes too big for me. He wants to ask who he’d have seen in the photoalbum if I hadn’t woken up and he’d had the opportunity to look it through up to the last page.

 

But he doesn’t ask anything. And it’s smart of him.

 

Really, really smart.

-------------------------

 

I half expected it to happen, but I didn’t expect it to happen this way. It must be his whole good guy performance that misled me. Distracted me.

 

Boy, does that make me an idiot.

 

It takes me every bit of control I have not to hit back and start squirming thoughtlessly, blinded by revulsion. There was that certain period of time in my life, after my family was gone and before I met Ritchey, when I had to get by on my own, homeless in a big panic-stricken city. Ever since then I react very sharply when I feel someone so close behind me. Especially if that someone smells of men’s perfume.

 

Control is everything.

 

I only tense a bit.

 

“Theo.”

 

“Hi again.” His hand slides over my shoulder to my chest. I try to think calmly. It’s not easy. I’m in my bed – you take to feeling invincible in home-spots like that, so it’s not just fear, it’s a shock to know that he’s broken into its safety, that he’s beside me under the many layers of my blankets. In my little burrow. I always sleep naked, even in the worst of colds, and now I feel him with my whole back, and the only thing that’s keeping me sane is that he hasn’t taken off his boxers yet.

 

Why didn’t I wake up when he came in?

 

Must be the whole SP training, maybe they teach them to move the right way, noiseless and all. Control, Dean. You’re in control, you poor idiot. Just don’t alarm him. You’ll do fine.

 

“I thought you might feel lonely here,” he says into my ear. His voice is hoarse, and his other hand travels down over my stomach. “On a cold night like this.” He nibbles on my earlobe. Very tender.

 

I hate him.

 

“Say something?”

 

“Mmm. I’d rather let you do all the talking.” I’m a little breathless, but hopefully, he’ll think it’s because I’m aroused. Let him think so. Please. My hand snakes over to the edge of the bed. The thing is right there under the corner of my mattress. Just let me get it this time, and I’ll keep it under my pillow ever since. Right under my fucking pillow.

 

“Love a little dirty talk?” he laughs softly. “Hey, where are you crawling?”

 

The bed is so damn wide. A motherfucking double. No wincing, no tensing, be nice… be sweet. All you can do.

 

“You want to hurt me, big guy? I haven’t been with a man for two years. Can I at least have my Anal-Ease?”

 

He laughs again and lets go of me, and yes, yes, that’s all I needed. It takes me less than a second.

 

His laughter breaks off so suddenly when the muzzle of my gun presses against his forehead.

 

It’s almost better than sex.

 

Just don’t relax now, Dean, I tell myself. He’s a professional. Don’t let him trick you. And the first rule to remember is NRT – No Redundant Talking.

 

“Get out of my bed now. Get away from me now. Or I’ll shoot you a new eye between the two you have. NOW.”

 

He doesn’t try to talk me silly. He knows I’m not kidding. He must feel it. He obeys at once, sliding out of the nest of blankets, moving away from me, towards the door. Never turning his back on me.

 

I try to slow down my breathing.

 

“I have been wondering,” he says quietly. “Have been wondering what kind of gun you have. Ever since you told ole Jake you’d shoot my balls off.”

 

“The offer still stands.”

 

Is he smiling? It’s not exactly dark, not with the whole milky mess outside the window, but still, I can’t see.

 

“It’s not what you think it was.” His voice is calm, soothing. He has no idea that it makes me see red. I’m not a kid. I’m grown up enough for him to try and fuck me. Stupid dick.

 

“It was just an offer.”

 

“Oh yeah?” I hiss. The hatred in my voice takes him aback, makes him wince. Take that, bitch. One wrong fucking move, and you’re minus your head. If I decide to be kind. “Is that what they called it when you were growing up? Because we, in this place and time, call it sneaking up on someone and trying to fuck him while he sleeps. Let’s work out this terminology question, shall we?”

 

“You didn’t always live alone in this house.”

 

“No. And that’s none of your business.”

 

“You lived here with a man.”

 

“And that’s none of your fucking business.”

 

“And there is Anal-Ease in the house,” he finishes bluntly. “It’s in the bedside table, in the top drawer. In the room you lent me.”

 

I feel dizzy. I never got around to cleaning Ritchey’s room. How did Theo put it recently? I didn’t have the heart.

 

“Go away,” I say. “Go away before I do something really stupid.”

 

He stirs. He looks awkward again. Does he feel the least bit sorry, I wonder?

 

Or is he just cursing himself for letting me reach the gun?

 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I just… I guess I misunderstood you. That’s all.”

 

“Go away.”

 

He walks out and closes the door.

 

I let my hand with the gun drop down. For a few moments I just sit there, breathing. Inhale – exhale. Inhale – exhale. Then I get up and turn on the light.

 

The pendulum clock on the wall shows ten minutes past midnight. Right, I went to sleep early, before it was even ten, I think. I suddenly realize that my hands are trembling. And that I’m all wet. Sweated. I use the shirt to wipe the sweat off. I go to the window, press my forehead against the cold, slightly vibrating glass and stare into the intricate lines of frostwork for a while.

 

Then I go and do something I haven’t ever done while living in this house, not even once. I lock my bedroom door from the inside. Now I can go back to bed. Maybe I’ll even manage to get some sleep. If he decides to try again, he’ll have to deal with the lock, and that is sure to wake me up.

 

But somewhere deep inside me, I know he won’t come again.

 

And I be damned if I know why it makes me feel so empty.

---------------------

 

I wake up before the dawn.

 

People used to get confused a lot about the time. I did, too. Because when you see a lot of snow around, you somehow think that it’s only six p.m. when it darkens… or that it’s already seven if the dawn is breaking. That’s all wrong. Because it’s not always winter. Technically, it’s summer now, and days are long. Not as long as they used to be, but longer than in winter, anyway. I’m not sure how that can be even possible, with all the low temperatures. No-one is sure. But if you think it’s impossible, all you have to do is look out the window.

 

The light outside has turned from dirty-grey to light milky-grey. Pre-dawn. Maybe, half past four. Maybe already five in the morning.

 

And it’s cold. Chilling, freezing cold. I wake up shivering under my blankets. And my breathing leaves small clouds of steam in the air.

 

It’s bad. It means the fire has gone out. Also means I shouldn’t have flipped off the heater. But it eats up all the air, and if I leave it on for the night, I’m always all but choking in the morning.

 

Shit. That’s downright unbearable.

 

I let my hand sneak out from under the blanket – COLD! – and grab my clothes, dragging them into the relative warmth of my lair. I hate to sleep dressed, but the way it goes, I’m not going to be able to sleep at all tonight. The Night of Fuck-Ups. Dammit.

 

After I get dressed and sit still, wrapped in blankets, for a while, I feel a bit warmer. Why is it so cold? The storm? But it seems to have subsided a little. It’s not banging on the roof anymore, not screaming. And…

 

… and there is no frostwork on the glass. And no snow blocking it from the outside.

 

Through it, I can see the snow dancing. There must be many different winds mixed into that one big storm, because the snow is going different routs. The dance of the whirls. Cold, but beautiful. As mesmerizing as the fire is.

 

And then I see it again.

 

The figure out there.

 

Only it’s not white. And it’s not dancing. It’s standing in the distance – and it’s a man. I see the broad shoulders, the black overcoat… that looks a bit familiar, come to think of it. And the pose, too, hands in pockets, shoulders slightly raised. A patient, waiting pose.

 

I get out of bed and walk towards the window. And when I’m beside it, I find out that the figure is now closer, too. The wind throws another bucketful of snow against the glass, and I lose sight of it for a while… and then, suddenly, it’s right behind the window.

 

I give a gasp. A loud gasp.

 

Because it’s Ritchey.

 

Ritchey as I best remember him, his overcoat a little too tight in the shoulders, the collar raised, his dark-blond hair ruffled by the wind. He looks a little too pale, but definitely alive.

 

“Ritchey?” I whisper. “Ritch… how can it be?!”

 

He’s smiling.

 

I put my hand against the glass. And then Ritchey on the other side of it does the same.

 

My palm all but sticks to the window, and my fingers go numb from cold.

 

But I don’t care.

 

He mouths something. I don’t quite get it. It could be nothing at all…

 

… or it could be, Come.

 

And then, his smile never faltering, he turns and begins to walk away through the snow. Slowly. Without looking back.

 

“Ritchey!”

 

He’s going away.

 

“RITCHEY!”

 

I dart for the door and fumble with the lock for a few precious seconds, cursing myself down to deep hell for locking it up in the first place. I run out of the room, along the corridor, through the living room, into the hall, to hell with the coats, he is going away! I turn the door handle, undo the little door chain…

 

… and then I’m outside.

 

I don’t even feel the cold at once. I still see his back in the distance. When did he manage to get so far? He’s still walking so slowly! I hurry after him, slipping, stumbling, falling through the snow.

 

“Ritchey!”

 

He doesn’t look back.

 

“Ritch!”

 

And suddenly he’s so far away from me. On the very verge of vision. A moment – and he’s gone.

 

“RIIIIIITCHEEEEEY!”

 

He’s not there.

 

I’m alone in the middle of the snow storm.

 

And I don’t feel my legs.

 

I don’t feel my hands either. And my arms. And my face feels like a mask. I don’t see him. I don’t see my house, even though I couldn’t have gone far from it. I don’t see anything but white. Cold, cold white…

 

“YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKING MORONIC MILKSOP!”

 

Someone grabs me by the arm. I’m surprised I can feel it. And then I’m being dragged back through the snow. No. No, because he might come back, right? I scream and kick away, suddenly regaining my legs, but it’s no good. There’s the door already. It opens, and I’m thrown in. Then I hear it bang shut.

 

I land onto the carpet with a thump and look up to see who it was.

 

Theo. Of course Theo, in his black-and-red parka, taking off his goggles. Looking at me as if I were a three-headed zebra.

 

“What was it?” he demands, and there’s an angry edge to his voice. Anger and… fear? “Why the fuck did you do it?!”

 

I can’t talk. I just look at him.

 

“Dean.” Anger fades from his voice. Now it’s worried. “Did you see something?”

 

I don’t reply.

 

“Who was that guy you were calling?” He takes off his parka and brushes the snow off his pants. “That… Ritchey?”

 

I suddenly sob. It’s so unexpected, I surprise myself. The sob is dry, painful. There are no tears yet.

 

“Dean…”

 

And I break down and cry. I shouldn’t. I mustn’t cry. Crying is useless, it never makes things better… but I cry. And cry, and cry, and cry. Bawl. The sobs are racking my whole body, not letting me even breath.

 

“Oh shit. Here, let me… fuck… just don’t get the wrong idea, okay?”

 

He takes off my shirt and then my t-shirt, but I don’t protest, I do what I’m asked to, raising my arms, letting him undress me, because it so doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not now. He takes off my jeans, too.

 

And then he takes off his shirt and throws it over my shoulders. And then he wraps me into a blanket. And then he rekindles the fire in the fireplace. And then he steers me towards it and sits down on the floor beside me and puts his arm around my shoulders.

 

And I just cry and cry, until I run out of tears.

 

And then I cry some more.

----------------

 

Noise in the hall wakes me up.

 

I open my eyes, a good deal confused. I slept? I’m in my bed, under my blankets, but I’m still wearing the shirt Theo gave me. Oh. I must have nodded off after all the bawling. Fuck. I’m ashamed when I think of it. So ashamed I feel hot in the face.

 

But what is this noise?

 

I crawl out of bed to get dressed. I’m not sure how I’m going to talk to Theo. If the first part of the night hadn’t happened, I’d be thankful. If the second part of the night hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be talking to him at all. The way it is, I just have no idea. And I’ve got a headache.

 

I walk out into the hall, and then I talk without even thinking of it.

 

“What the fuck is going on here?”

 

Theo freezes. He has been putting on his parka, so he freezes with one arm in the sleeve. Comical. But there’s his bag on the floor next to him. And my garage keys in his hand.

 

“Morning,” he says uncertainly.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

 

He sighs.

 

“Getting the fuck away from you. That’s what you told me to do, no?”

 

Oh fine.

 

“Nice way to go, making me look like a bitch after everything that happened, eh, officer?”

 

He cringes.

 

“Dean, cut it. I didn’t mean it. I just thought, well… I’d better go. I fucked up, okay? You gave me shelter, and I fucked up. I’m sorry. And it will really be better if I go, right? I could sleep in the Townhall, they have couches.”

 

“If you make it there,” I point out. Because the storm hasn’t gone anywhere, it’s still raging on outside, so bad it almost blots out the light whatsoever. “You really think you can?”

 

“I’ve got a good car.”

 

“You won’t even get to the garage.”

 

“I got as far as to catch you this morning!”

 

Does this mean I really made it far before he did? Impossible… but it hurts to think of it, so I just mention one thing:

 

“The storm was calming down then. Must be one of those false storm-ends you’ve told me about. That’s why.”

 

He doesn’t reply, but he looks very determined. Holy fucking Jesus Christ on a Satan’s pogo stick, he really is goody-two-shoes, isn’t he?

 

“Theo, stop this whole drama, will you? You’re not going out into the storm. If it makes your impeccable self so damn guilty even to see me, you can drag your mattress down to the basement. But you’re not fucking leaving before this madness outside is over.”

 

“You’re a nice guy, Dean.”

 

And he turns to leave.

 

There’s nothing left to do. And then, as if on cue, I start coughing.

 

He whips around. And I don’t try to suppress the fit, I let myself cough, and lean against the wall and slide down to the carpeted floor. And it works, because in a moment he’s right beside me, already minus his parka, dropping the garage keys to the floor.

 

“What’s up?! Dean, you okay?”

 

“Just a little cold,” I tell him between coughing. “I… I’ll be the first to admit… it wasn’t a good idea… to walk out undressed…”

 

“You have medicines?”

 

“Yeah. In the fridge, in the kitchen. In the lower section.”

 

I almost don’t cough when I say that, but my breathing is troubled and he is still worried.

 

“Get up. I’ll help you, let’s seat you in an armchair.”

 

“Just give me a glass of water,” I hiss. “Can you do just that?”

 

He hurries off to the kitchen. And I pick up the keys and hide them in the back pocket of my jeans.

 

It always worked with Ritchey, too. Even though he always knew when I was doing it on purpose. I could see it in his eyes. He understood at once. But still acted as if he didn’t, doing what I wanted him to. He was a great guy. I wouldn’t race out into the snowstorm for someone who wasn’t great.

 

Theo doesn’t go anywhere, of course. For the rest of the day, we play General Hospital, with me sitting around and him fussing about the kitchen. Making me tea. He said they told them in training that hot tea with honey or a little bit of rum is the best thing for colds. Yeah, that and penicillin. By the end of the day I’ve drunk enough tea to make me so yellow, any Chinese would go green with envy. But either it helps or I haven’t been too sick to begin with, because my headache goes away finally, and when I take my temperature it’s only ninety-eight. Yeah, I’m a little weak. And I still cough occasionally. But it’s no big deal. I have never been the one to go down with a cold that easily. At least in that respect, I am strong.

 

When the night comes, we finally part, going each to his own bedroom. Theo pauses in the corridor.

 

“Don’t lock your door,” he says. “I promise you, I won’t trouble you again. But if you feel worse, I’ll hear you call. I won’t close my door either.”

 

I just nod. I won’t call for help. But I have to show I believe him. And, after all, I do.

 

And only when we both turn in and the house becomes dark and silent, I understand that I’m afraid.

 

There’s still no snow block outside my window. Still no frostwork covering it. As if someone has cleaned it, prepared a little screen to show me something. I know what. And I don’t want to see it. Please. Not anymore. Am I going insane? I must be… do insane people ever realize they’re insane, I wonder? I can’t look away from the window, staring into the stormy night. There isn’t anything there. Nothing but snow. But I’m afraid. Afraid and waiting.

 

I’m just lying there, muffling myself up in blankets, and all my nerves are so tense they are ready to snap. Did I just see someone move there? No, it’s just snow. Or is it?.. Didn’t it just begin to form a shape again, that ghostly dancing figure?.. No. It’s my imagination. But something is moving to the left…

 

It’s just a little whirl, but I jump to my feet and almost cry out. Easy, Dean. There’s nothing there. Nothing. I turn on the light and sit back onto my bed. Whisper curses and damns, mocking myself. Afraid to sleep alone. Twenty-one and afraid to sleep alone at night. How cool is that, Dean? You’ve been doing it for a long time, I tell myself. Another night isn’t going to kill you.

 

And suddenly I feel so damn lonely.

 

Theo doesn’t move when I walk into his room, but he isn’t sleeping. I stand near the doorway for a while, and I know he’s looking at me. At my silhouette against the window.

 

“Do you have a gun?” I ask him.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you going to put it to my forehead if I get into your bed without warning?”

 

“No,” he says. “God, no.”

 

“Good.”

 

He’s strong, and his hands are hot and dry, and it’s good, it’s really good, I forgot how good it can be. He catches his breath when I snuggle up to him, gives a loud “Aaahhh!” when I straddle his hips.

 

“Why do you have to wear this thing all the time?” I pull at the string of his boxers.

 

“A habit,” he tells me, as his palms go over my torso in large, unhurried strokes. It’s as if he’s looking me over with his hands. It makes me air-headed. Dizzy and silly.

 

“I really didn’t mean to hurt you yesterday.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I thought you wanted it.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I…”

 

“I know.”

 

I’m a little uneasy. I’d hate to call him something other than his own name. Even if he wouldn’t care. But he and Ritchey are so different. Ritchey used to start with kissing, a long, greedy kiss on the lips that made me breathless and desperate for more. Theo starts at my chest, licking and nibbling, going up, over my shoulders and my neck, before he gets to my face and pulls me down for a deliberate, somewhat careful kiss that makes me all warm and soft and compliant. Ritchey used to go over my whole body with the tips of his fingers, as if I were a musical instrument, and he knew where to press harder or where to just linger over my skin on the verge of touch, and hell, he played me just perfectly. Theo strokes, as if eager to catch as much of me into his palms as he can, having a little grab-and-fondle now and then, and I moan, and hiss, and lean into his touch. Ritchey used to whisper in my ear all the time, telling me how good I was and how much he wanted me, and that really fired me up. Theo doesn’t say anything, all I hear is his breathing, heavy, raspy, and I know it’s me who made him so needy, and it makes me high. And then I forget about comparing them, because it’s not important anymore. No thoughts are important. Only sensations are.

 

“What are you waiting for?”

 

“I’ll just take that Anal-Ease, okay? I have a feeling you weren’t making it up about two years…”

 

“Oh fuck, who cares.”

 

“I do.”

 

And maybe that’s what’s making me so damn high, such a heady feeling – someone cares for me again. Such bliss.

 

“Ow. Awwww.”

 

“I’m hurting you? Dean…”

 

“Oh, shut up already. Just shut up and fuck.”

 

And he shuts up, but I can’t, and he doesn’t ask questions anymore because he must know by now it’s not pain that makes me scream. And boy, do I scream. Because it’s so good. Because he’s so damn caring, obeying to ever hint of my body. Because I feel everything so sharply. Because I don’t feel empty anymore.

 

And when the time comes for that final scream, I don’t yell anybody’s name, not his, not the one I was afraid I would. No names. No words at all.

 

I just yell.

 

And it’s wonderful.

 

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