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me to strip. I do, trying to decide if I should be shy in front of him. My shirt goes up and over my head. I hesitate when I reach the fly to my jeans, but the earnest expression on his face is not mocking me, nor is it filled with any kind of deep hunger. I take off my boots and flip the buttons on my jeans and drop them to the floor. Something stutters across his eyes then and there’s a quick flash as he looks me up and down just once, and I think I hear a sharp intake of breath, but I can’t be sure over the noise of the shower. He parts the curtain, closing it behind me when I am under the water. I can see him through the plastic as he picks up my clothes and folds them, then puts down the toilet seat lid and sits. Waiting.
The water scalds my skin. The steam is heavy in the room. I feel detached, like I’m above myself, looking down. This moment feels almost like a dream. I lean my forehead against the tile, the water cascading down my back. I close my eyes and I’m tired, suddenly exhausted. My knees feel weak, and I open my eyes, my vision tunneling. I inhale, but I choke on the steam. It’s hard to catch my breath and I just want to lie down. I just want to close my eyes and not think. It’s not a bad thing. I know that desire to want to escape, to not have to worry about the things I no longer have control over. So I let go. The release is almost shocking in its simplicity. I let go of all of my confusion and jumbled thoughts because I just want to float on my back and look up at the sky and go wherever the river will take me. I let go and fall.
But before I fall completely, strong arms wrap around me, holding me tight. A worried voice says my name. Lips brush against mine, and in my secret heart (crossed, hoped for death, a thousand needles stuck in my eye), I know I’m safe as I disappear into the dark.
There is no seventy-seven in this place. There is no river. There are no crosses,
no trucks that crash down embankments. No voices call my name, no shadow figures standing on the roadway above. It smells of earth and there is only peace because all I have is blue.
Consciousness creeps in slowly. I don’t want to wake up, but I feel that I
must. I’m warm, and comfortable. I know I’m in my own bed even before I open my eyes. I crack open my left eye and it’s dark in my room. The sun has set since I passed out in the shower. Moonlight is soft through the window, splaying shadows from the trees onto the floor.
I am alone, and I try to ignore the ache that causes. I’m not too successful. The bedroom door is shut and I hold my breath for a moment, trying to hear anything in Little House, to see if he is somewhere near or if a thread has called to him and he is gone. I don’t hear anything. Little House is quiet. But don’t I feel something there? Isn’t there something, just beyond the door? All I have to do is open the door and he will be mine, because isn’t something there?
There is, and he calls to me. My blood sings, the cells almost boiling. My skin prickles. I feel like I’m vibrating and my teeth chatter. I sit up and put my feet on the floor. I’m wearing only my usual sleep shorts. I try not to think how I got into them. “Things are changing,” I whisper frantically, my voice hoarse.
Things have already changed, is the reply.
I stand and take a step toward the door and it’s—
blue
—easier than I thought it would be, as is every step that follows. The floor is cold against my feet, the air in my room cool against my hot skin. My nipples pebble as I reach the doorknob, and I give myself one last chance to stop this, to stop all of this. I could. I could crawl back into my bed and pull the covers up and over me and hide there until morning, when things would make more sense, when things would be rational and I wouldn’t have to—
I open the door.
Calliel has made his nest on the floor outside my room, a pillow under his head, a blanket covering his waist and legs. He’s still wearing the same white T-shirt from earlier in the day, or so I think. For all I know, he could have any number of white ones. I rake my gaze over the muscles visible in his stomach and chest even below his shirt. They seem to go on for miles, and it’s all I can do to keep from falling down on top of him to find out just how far they go. His neck is strong, the rusty stubble beginning just under his Adam’s apple. The small cleft on his chin. The parted lips, full and pale. Those dark eyes.
He’s awake and looking back at me, his eyes glittering in the dark.
We’re silent, for a time.
Then:
“No threads tonight? No one to go save, Superman?” I say this lightly.
He shakes his head, a twitch to his lips.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unable to think of anything else.
“For what?” he rumbles up at me.
“Falling asleep.” I think I mean to say something else. I don’t know.
“You were tired.”
“Yeah. It’s been a… strange day.”
“These are some strange days,” he agrees, arching his back. He looks like he’s stretching, but his shirt rides up his stomach and I see the red fur there, the hard planes of his hip bone jutting in sharp relief.
I tear my eyes away. “Cal… I—”
“You need your rest.” He looks toward my bed. “Go back to sleep, Benji. We can speak tomorrow. You’ve been through a lot today.”
Disappointment tears through me, and it’s harsh. “Okay,” I say in a small voice. I reach out to shut the door, but then I don’t want to. I don’t want it closed. It’s a barrier between me and the outside world. It’s a barrier between him and me and I don’t want it there anymore. I push it open even further so that it’s against the wall and I glance down at him defiantly before I move back to my bed.
He say
