NINAH

Mikhail climbs behind the wheel of his truck and just sits there, his exhaled breath clouding in the chill air.

He’s outside Yevgeny’s apartment, some of the snow he’d brushed off his vehicle still clinging to his sleeves, the legs of his pants. The wedding photo album his best friend had gifted rests on the passenger seat beside him. He can still taste him, beneath the layers of that garlic-laden, overpriced pizza from the Western world that his country had recently adopted and the beer that had been thoughtfully kept on hand in the fridge. He can still taste him, and it makes his jeans tight all over again, because even though he feels guilty—and make no mistake, that feeling is making him regret his overindulgence at supper right about now, his stomach protesting with some unhappy gurgles—there are other feelings buried there as well. Confusing. Exciting. Terrible.

He sees the light in the bedroom of the second story apartment switch on, knows that means his best friend is getting ready for bed. He’s thinking about the feel of the man’s heart throbbing against his lips as he’d kissed his neck, as he’d whispered those forbidden words. The look in those dark eyes as his lashes had fluttered open, their breaths mingling. The tacky, cooling slime drenching his fingers, later washed off at the bathroom sink before heading out to pick up their meal. He’d missed most of the hockey game tonight, but he had been able to see his team score a victory, at least.

A shadow lingers by the window. Watching him? He turns the key in the ignition. It’s getting late. He’d already called Vera to let her know where he was. He’d meant to leave much sooner than this. He’d meant to simply get caught up, to make peace, and instead he’d left in pieces, the innocent lie of friendship on his lips becoming something much more sinister. He hadn’t meant those words he’d said though, had he? Not quite in that way. But that was alright. It was just the one time. Hearing it in return with his back pressed against the door. An open invitation. Another heated kiss. He wants things to go back to the way they were before. He wants to go back into the apartment and kiss him again. Slip his hands beneath that sweater. Another cloud before his trembling lips. He’s forgotten to put the heater on. The room above goes dark. He rests a hand on the album, grounding himself.

He finally leaves the parking lot.

~💐~

“Misha, wake up.”

Mikhail groans, burying his face deeper into the pillow and squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He hates the sunlight flooding the bedroom; there’s far too much of it this early in the morning. The curtains must be drawn back. Vera’s handiwork, no doubt. She’s probably been up for at least an hour already, getting ready, doing chores and the like. It makes him even more drowsy just thinking about it, silently cursing the existence of mornings. He’d much rather each day start in the afternoon. “Give me until third alarm, yeah?” He mumbles into the soft cushion his face is smushed against. He’d known those beers were going to be a mistake yesterday, but he couldn’t help but indulge. They’d just gone down so easy with takeaway from that new restaurant that was admittedly expensive but incredibly worth it.

Ugh. Last night.

With those pretty little whimpers and moans still ringing in his ears for the rest of the ride home. Climbing into bed with Vera. He didn’t even shower first, just brought those memories of the other man right in their bed with him.

Mikhail’s fingers tighten, crumpling the top sheet into his fist. He can still smell the fragrance of the dryer sheets; his wife had changed the bedding right before they’d left for their honeymoon. He wonders what Yevgeny’s sheets smell like; what it would feel like to straddle his hips and pin the other man beneath him. His cock twitches at the fantasy image and he shifts positions a little, one bent knee sliding upward, his angled hips subtly grinding against the rumpled comforter, then quickly stills. No. He’s not going to think about his friend and hump the mattress with his wife beside him—and gods, what about her? What about feeling guilty because he’s cheated on her?

Maybe it’s just a phase. The newness of it, the wrongness that makes it so painfully erotic. Maybe once he gets it out of his system he can renew his pledge to be a good and faithful husband. He’s despicable, and he knows it. But he still wants them both. Selfish, but there it is.

“It is the third alarm. You keep hitting the snooze button. Come on, wake up. I’ve got breakfast waiting.” Vera grasps his shoulder and shakes him gently, mistaking the reason for his continued reluctance to get up. If only it were simply fatigue keeping him prisoner in this bed. If only.

The mechanic finally sighs, pushing himself into a sitting position, the covers strategically bunched around his waist to cover his half hard dick. He glances over at the alarm clock on the nightstand accusingly. How can it be that late already?

“‘M going to shower,” he mumbles, digging the heel of one palm against his sticky eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision.

“Your lunch is already packed. Did you have any more laundry you need done?”

There’s no way in hell she’s touching the clothes he had on yesterday. He’s going to have to clean them himself. “No, I’m good. Verochka,” he calls just as the blonde woman reaches the doorway.

She pauses, a band of sunlight highlighting her golden hair. She looks so pretty standing there in her flouncy dress; so soft and sweet. Poor, innocent woman. She has no idea of the boundaries he’s crossed. The ones he’s stepped over gingerly, the ones he might yet still leap over. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” he replies warmly. Gratitude will have to serve as an apology for the time being.

She returns his grin. “Of course. Now get going. Time’s wasting.”

Mikhail hates fast showers, preferring to linger under the water, letting the hot water massage him. But there’s no time for that today. He hastily scrubs himself clean and then slips into the freshly laundered work clothes Vera has thoughtfully laid out for him. He curls an arm around his wife’s waist once he reaches the kitchen, kissing the side of her perfumed neck, and she hums contentedly. A bowl of kasha sweetened with honey, boiled eggs, black bread with jam, and coffee is waiting for him on the table. She joins him, nibbling daintily at her own meal for a few moments before she sets her fork down.

“So you didn’t get a chance to tell me how your visit went yesterday. I assume well since you got back so late.”

Mikhail takes a hasty swallow of his beverage, nearly choking on the hot liquid. “Uh, yeah. It went fine.”

“Worked through your disagreement, then?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He stuffs a spoonful of the porridge in his mouth.

“Good, I’m glad you two made up. I know how upset you both were about it. The photo album was beautiful. Did you get a chance to look at it?”

“Not yet.” His eyes flick to the clock on the wall and he drains the last of his coffee, then wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Gotta get going. Thank you for breakfast. See you tonight.” He stands and she follows him to the door, handing him his lunch. He kisses her forehead in parting, hugging her briefly before heading out the door.

Mikhail makes it to the autobody shop twenty minutes late, quickly stashing his lunch tote into the communal employee refrigerator before heading to the garage.

The ribbing starts the second he’s finished backing a customer’s vehicle into the first bay, teasing remarks from his coworkers about why he came to work late and probing questions about the honeymoon. He waves away the comments and endures the elbows lightly dug into his ribs, the waggled eyebrows and sly smirks. Let them think what they want.

They’d never believe it if he told them the real reason why he was dragging so much today.

As soon as his first alloted rest period arrives, he ducks into the manager’s office, knocking on the open door to announce his arrival.

“Hey, boss. Can I use the phone? Won’t be long.”

The owner of the shop looks up from a pile of invoices, frowning. “Weren’t you late today?”

“Yeah. Won’t happen again. It’s just, you know. First day back, newly married and…” Might as well use the excuse he’s been offered all day.

The seated man sets his glasses down on the desk. “Alright, if you’re quick. I have some phone calls to make. Parts are still delayed on that ‘81 Niva.”

Mikhail rocks on his heels, sawing at the back of his neck. “I meant, uh, can I use it in private?”

Now the manger’s gaze sharpens. “Oh? Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just…you know. C’mon, the guys having been giving me grief all day as it is.”

The other mechanic smiles knowingly. “Ah. The joys of being a newlywed. It’ll wear off soon enough, so enjoy it while it lasts. Okay, Misha, I’ll step out for a few. And no smoking,” he warns, rising from his seat and exiting the office.

Mikhail waits until the door clicks shut, then sits down on the swivel chair, still warm from his boss’s prolonged use. He lifts the phone off the receiver and dials, then begins fidgeting with the pen lying on the desk calendar while he waits for an answer, clicking the switch at the end of the barrel so that the ink tube extends and retracts repeatedly.

Come on, pick up, Vera.

No answer. Out doing errands, probably. Well, he’d made the attempt. That’s what matters, right?

He hangs up the phone, staring at the black plastic encased device, his pulse rate rising. He should just get back to work. He’d promised his manager he would hurry.

Don’t do it. Don’t keep chasing him.

His eyes close. He’s back in Yevgeny’s living room, stroking him. Whispering that he loves him. Feeling him come undone. The pretty part of his flushed coral lips, the flutter of his sooty eyelashes and blown pupils entrances him. The way he looks, so utterly wrecked, so hopelessly infatuated. He likes that feeling. Powerful.

Don’t—

He lifts the receiver and dials a different number. It rings twice, then the connection is made.

“Hello?”

“Zhenya. Good, you’re home.”

“Misha. Is everything alright?” A hint of concern laces his tone.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time right now, just taking a quick break, but I wanted to ask you if you’d like to have lunch today. At the park? Vera packed enough food for an army.” After the mention of his spouse’s name he holds his breath, waiting to see how he’ll react.

A pause. His heart thumps.

“Yes, I’d love to.” There’s that pesky word again. “What time?”

“Around one should be good.”

“One it is. How’s work?”

“It’s okay. The usual.” He pauses, winding the spiral phone cord around his index finger. “I had a good time yesterday.” He forces the words out, cringing once they’re free. No, that wasn’t the sentiment he wanted to offer. “I mean, it was nice seeing you again. I mean—”

“—Misha. It’s okay,” the photographer says, his tone warm and soothing.

“I missed you,” he finally declares in a breathless rush.

“I missed you, too.” His voice is quieter now.

“Alright, I’ve got to go. See you in a bit.”

The rest of the morning passes fairly quickly. A few oil changes. A new set of brakes. Tire mount. The tasks keep Mikhail busy, distracted.

At last it’s time to leave. He sets his meal in the microwave to reheat, then heads into the restroom to scrub the grime from his hands and comb his fingers through his hair. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes. He should go to bed early tonight, try to get caught up on sleep.

Outside, the weather is cold as usual. He walks with his hands shoved into the pockets of his work jacket and his shoulders hunched, quickly unlocking his truck once he reaches it and sliding behind the wheel. On a milder day, when there weren’t time constraints, he would have just walked the entire distance. But he doesn’t have that luxury now. He’s starting to feel anxious, his stomach a little riled again and his palms damp. Ridiculous. It’s just lunch with his best friend. Something he’s done hundreds of times.

Of course, that was before they’d been intimate.

He squirms in his seat, cranking the vent on before exiting the parking lot. There isn’t any parking available directly near the downtown location, so he has to seek a spot a little further away. It makes him wonder if the fates are conspiring against him; if it’s not another chance being offered to avoid more infidelity. Then again, he could argue that it was a sign of fate that his spouse hadn’t answered the phone.

Mikhail jogs across the street with lunch in hand, spying Yevgeny’s tall figure seated on a bench nearby, the familiar strap of his camera slung around his neck.

“Sorry, were you waiting long?” He settles down beside him.

“Not at all.”

“Take any good pictures?”

“Not yet. I’ve been busy developing.”

“The work project for the university? Or something else?”

“Work.” His eyes follow Mikhail’s movements as he begins unpacking the contents of his bag. “Did you manage to get any sleep last night?”

“Not much. Shows, huh?”

“I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”

“I invited myself over, remember?”

Yevgeny hums, accepting the bowl of soup and spoon he’s handed, sampling several mouthfuls before passing it back to him. “Did Vera enjoy the album?”

“She did, as a matter of fact.” Mikhail watches the steam curling from the container he’s holding.

“It’s good. She’s a good cook.”

“She is,” he agrees, his own serving still untasted. “I tried calling her before I called you,” he admits, shuffling his feet.

“Ah. So I’m your second choice then, hmm? A consolation prize.” His tone sounds curiously neutral, but Mikhail doesn’t trust it.

“No, that’s not—” He sighs. “I wanted to see you.”

“Well, here I am. Sharing your wife’s borscht. Pass it back if you’re not going to eat any.”

He shakes his head, trying a few spoonfuls even though his appetite seems gone. “You look so calm. So…unflustered.”

“You know how to change that.”

He groans. “Gods, you make everything sound so suggestive.”

Another hum. It’s infuriating, really. He looks almost smug. Satisfied. That’s what it is. Color in his cheeks. No hallmarks of poor sleep beneath his eyes. The man looks healthy. Content.

“You’re staring,” Yevgeny observes, his eyes on the busy street.

“I’m…I’m staring,” he agrees.

“Am I that fascinating?”

“You look good. I mean…happy. You look happy,” he murmurs awkwardly.

“Your fault.” He grins, then tries to peer into the bag sitting beside Mikhail. “What else did you bring?”

“Greedy. There’s a pork cutlet. Some bread.” He finishes unpacking the contents of the tote and the pair spend a few moments in silence, consuming the meal and regarding their surroundings. “So what will you work on next?”

“The local paper is doing an article on the restoration of the Church of the Holy Trinity. I’ll be heading there this afternoon to get some shots in.”

“I’ve heard about that project. Long overdue.”

“I haven’t set foot in a church in years.”

“Vera’s been mentioning it. Says we have to at least make an attempt to go sometimes.” He finishes munching on the crust of bread in his hand, toeing at a patch of ice on the sidewalk. He’s not sure if the sudden silence that descends is because he’s mentioned his spouse once again. He can’t seem to stop doing it; it’s a reminder that he feels like they both need to hear. This doesn’t just involve the two of them. And he does love her. He doesn’t regret marrying her.

But he doesn’t regret what’s happening with his best friend either. Not entirely. Not as much as he should.

“How do you feel about what happened yesterday?”

The question surprises Mikhail. He leans back against the bench, looking over at Yevgeny. “I told you, it was nice to see you again. I missed you.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Yeah.” The mechanic sighs. “I don’t know, to be honest. I’m very conflicted.”

“Conflicted.” He repeats the word thoughtfully. “Yes, I imagine you must be.”

“We should talk more about it. I mean actually talk. But right now…” He glances at his watch and curses.

“Your break is almost over. I understand,” Yevgeny remarks, helping him repack the empty containers. “Well, it was nice to get out and get some fresh air, take a little break. You should go to bed early tonight. Get some rest.”

“I was thinking the same thing earlier.” Mikhail stands and his friend rises to his feet.

“Stop by again some time soon,” he invites.

“Of course. And you’re always welcome to visit.”

It’s all so oddly formal, that final bit of dialogue before they part. Not that he’d been expecting anything different, of course; they were in public, after all.

But Mikhail can’t help but feel a little disappointed all the same.

~💐~

The shift ends. Mikhail stays a little later, trying to make up the difference from that morning. He’d finally gotten a hold of Vera. Out doing errands as he’d surmised. He promises not to be too late.

And he keeps that promise. He returns home from work and they have dinner and he goes to bed early, just like he’d planned.

The rest of the week continues along this trajectory. He comes home on time. He avoids the temptation that is his best friend. He spends time with Vera.

But by the weekend his resolve begins to crumble. There is no longer the structure and routine of work to distract him. Vera is visiting family. He doesn’t know what to do once she’s left the house and he’s left in the quiet.

He can’t stay here.

He begins walking to Yevgeny’s. He thinks maybe he’ll change his mind along the way. He’s wrong.

Mikhail practically runs up the stairs of the apartment building. The next door neighbor, an elderly woman, frowns as she pokes her head out so see who’s causing the commotion of his frantic knocking. It seems his best friend is not home.

Out taking photographs, then? The church project, perhaps?

He hesitates after he exits the building. He could just return home. Find something to watch on television. He should just go back and wait for Vera. But he knows he isn’t going to, already heading for the dead end road that leads to the aging chapel with its trio of golden domes and faded pistachio tinged plaster.

He fumbles in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, pausing as he reaches the brick and wrought iron gates encircling the property. Raised religious, faith is something he’s left behind for the most part in his adult life. It’s still there, he supposes, somewhere deep inside; some vague sort of belief in a higher power or powers, without a particular preference for one branch or another. He’s just not sure about the finer details. About that nebulous concept of the afterlife. If forgiveness is really as easy as asking for it. If there isn’t a sort of tally system. How many marks has he incurred already? He envisions sooted hash marks staining his soul. Surely he’s been adding to those lately.

He loiters near the gate for a time, consuming the comforting nicotine. Then he grinds the end into the pavement and makes his way inside.

The front doors are still the originals, layers of thick oak fortified with long nails beveled at the edges, forming decorative accents. Stepping inside, he’s immediately struck with the familiar smell of incense and dust and whatever cleaning product the housekeeper uses to keep the flooring clear from the muddied snow the parishioners track inside. The chapel is empty and he isn’t sure if that’s reassuring or not; if he wouldn’t welcome the sage presence of a priest right then to help him set his head and his heart straight. He isn’t sure if kneeling at a pew wouldn’t seem more like mockery than an attempt at praise or a plea for much needed absolution. His eyes stutter over the murals and filigree and marble, uncertain of where to focus. At last he turns away, head bowed, colliding with something—someone—solid as he exits the church.

“Misha.”

“Zhenya.” His head lifts. There he is in his dark coat, the 35mm Zenit hooked securely over his neck.

They regard one another for a long moment. Mikhail’s lips part to speak but then close again.

“Were you looking for me?”

“Yes.” His voice is hushed like the interior of the cathedral behind him.

Yevgeny nods. “Do you want to see the pictures I’ve taken so far?”

It seems like an innocent invitation, and yet he knows it won’t end that way. “Yes,” he accepts.

“Let’s go.”

~💐~

The development of film is something Mikhail’s seen his best friend perform many times.

He himself doesn’t have the patience for it; all those chemicals, all that waiting. There is little enough space for one person in the makeshift development room, let alone two, yet this aspect he doesn’t mind so much, crowding close to him. At one point he finally surrenders and slips an arm around the taller man’s waist, pulling him back and kissing his shoulder. The ache that fills him at the feel and scent makes him groan softly.

Yevgeny cradles his hand, his face turned. “Should we go?”

“Your room,” he rasps.

A little noise of agreement. He reluctantly releases the photographer and they exit the cramped space.

His hands twine around Yevgeny’s neck as soon as they emerge into the kitchen. He wants to kiss him but he’s suddenly shy. His nose brushes his chin. Fingers seed the hair at the back of his head, the nape of his neck. Another moan escapes him. He wants so much. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

“I tried to keep busy all week. I was doing so well,” the words spill out of him like a confession, perhaps the one he’d intended on making earlier, now breathed hotly beside Yevgeny’s throat instead. “But today I just couldn’t help it. I had to come here. I had to see you.”

He finds himself led to the bedroom. There’s a picture of the two of them framed on the nightstand. Folded papers peeking from where they’re tucked behind. The letter. The letter he’d never finished reading. The letter he’d found so alarming with its mushy sentiments. And now here he is spouting something very similar.

He pulls his shirt overhead with one hand, letting it drop to the carpet. Then he skims beneath the hem of the cream colored cable knit sweater Yevgeny’s clad in today, lifting until he understands that he wants this removed, too. Then the thin undershirts. Both bare chested, now.

Yevgeny sits on the edge of the mattress and Mikhail waits for him to move to the center before climbing over him. His hands press on either side of his face, digging into the pile of pillows. His wedding band glints in the light of the lamp, a reprimand that he ignores.

His head lowers and he nips at the other man’s lips, eliciting a sharp gasp. He soothes his lips with his own, with his tongue, rewarded with one of those sounds of pleasure and lust that haunts his dreams. Yevgeny’s head lifts to chase his mouth every time he draws back for a fuller breath of air, refusing to be parted for long. And he feels it too. Like magnets and iron filings. Moth and flame. He can’t stay away. Doesn’t want to.

He likes the pace this morning sets. No rush. The day stretched out before him. He admires the body laid out before him, that milky, unblemished skin. The fingers that caress the hard lines of muscle in the arms that keep him braced, cage strong, that trace the notch in one eyebrow and the freckles dusted over his nose. This is how he sees the world, he thinks. Every detail, nothing missed, full of wonder.

Mikhail kisses his collarbones, his shoulders. His nipples and ribs and stomach. His knees squeeze the generous curve of his hips when he unzips them both, lays them alongside one another. A fantasy come to life.

His head arches back at the sensation of heat laid against heat. Another series of gorgeous sounds from his lover. He dips back down to swallow them, to taste them. He continues to slide his hand up and down both of their cocks.

“Zhenya,” he pants against his cheek. “You feel so good. Bozhe moi…”

“Moya lyubov.” Yevgeny’s hips rise and fall, matching the rhythm of his own.

Mikhail feels his cheeks flush. It’s not supposed to be like this. Not…romantic. That’s something he’d wanted to save for Vera exclusively. But it’s impossible, isn’t it? Not to feel something, especially for someone he’s cherished as a friend for so long, especially one who’s already admitted to experiencing such emotions. Affection feels inevitable. Why not enjoy it?

He shudders and hums, the lone arm bracing his upper body weight beginning to burn slightly. The pressure in his groin is becoming unbearable. When his name is called, choked and broken, he finally surrenders, spilling his release over the other man’s stomach, nearly in synch with what’s already pooling there.

One of their undershirts serves to clear the mess—he’s not entirely sure whose, but he supposes he can borrow one if his own was the victim—and then he collapses beside him, exhaling loudly and combing a hand through his hair. He’s still not used to the longer length, the way the strands plaster damply against his brow.

Yevgeny turns onto his side to regard him, fingers splayed over his chest. He offers a little half smile and Mikhail returns it, then shakes his head, his gaze back on the ceiling.

“I’ve got more beer, if you want one.”

Mikhail groans. “You’re a bad influence. In a few minutes. Wouldn’t mind a cigarette too.”

“Again? I still taste the last one.” He leans over to press a kiss on his shoulder, then lets his head fall back on the pillow.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Mikhail admits quietly. “What spell you’ve cast over me.”

“Me? I’ve done nothing.”

“You’ve done a lot more than nothing.” He reaches out to drag a finger down the center of his chest, eventually diverting to grab a handful of one love handle and growling softly. “You make me crazy,” he mutters.

“Hmmm.”

“And don’t look so proud of yourself,” Mikhail scolds, brushing a quick kiss along his jaw, his eyes once again falling to the folded pages behind the picture frame. Written more for himself than for Mikhail, Yevgeny had claimed, but he’s still wondering what else he’d confessed.

“Ready for that beer?”

“Yes.”

Sorting through their discarded clothing reveals that it was indeed his undershirt that had been sacrificed for clean up.

“I’ll wash it for you. Wear this.” Yevgeny tosses a clean one retreived from his dresser at his chest.

“Thanks. You know, most guys keep tissues beside their beds for that sort of thing.”

“Do you?”

“What? Well, no, but…”

You reach the clearing a few hours after nightfall, your steps slowing when you realize you’ve discovered more than just a cabin.

There’s a man lying on the ground, pale, long limbed and bare chested. You can see through the moonlight filtering from above that one of his ankles is caught in a bear trap. The lifeforce leaking from him looks almost black. His gaze finds yours and the pair of you study each other for long moments before he finally breaks the quiet.

“If you help release me, I won’t harm you.”

“You’re a visitor,” you say softly, as if reluctant to speak that feared title. Even though the area is dimly lit there is no mistaking the unusual features about the man. His skin does not quite sit right on his body, stretched too thin in some places and pooling to excess in others. His limbs appear deformed. There is something unnatural about his face, the elements distorted and eerie.

“I am,” he agrees calmly, seemingly realizing it is pointless to argue otherwise.

You keep your distance, your eyes darting back to the cabin. “You staying there?”

“No. It belonged to a hunter. The one who set this trap. He’s gone now,” he says, a note of grim satisfaction creeping into his voice. “And he won’t be coming back.”

“To the house?”

“To life,” the wounded stranger corrects, chuckling softly.

You shudder, glancing down to notice the disturbed leaves and dirt at your feet. You consider asking where the hunter’s remains are, then decide you’re probably better off not knowing. He certainly didn’t get a proper burial; you wouldn’t even be surprised if the wicked creature boasted about feasting on his carcass.

“I was heading towards the shelter,” he says, noticing your survey of the ground and the grim look setting your jaw in a tense block, “and needed a little rest.” He sits up slowly with a groan, his long fingers splaying over his injured lower extremity. “If I was at full strength I could remove this easily. But I haven’t eaten or slept in some time.”

“Why not?”

He blinks. “A long story. You see the spring at the side here?” He points to the structure and you squint and nod. “There is one on the other side as well. They must both be pressed straight down in order to pry the jaws apart. A tricky thing to do alone, but with another…” The suggestion hangs heavy in the air.

“Why should I help you?”

The pale visitor regards you with a look that you feel, piercing and deep. “Why are you out here?”

“I couldn’t find a place to stay in the village. I thought maybe there might be something out here.” It is a very short summary in substitution for a much longer, more unpleasant truth, but you’re not about to go spilling your guts out to a visitor, of all things.

“A large gamble if there was nothing when the sun comes up.”

“But I was right,” you continue. “And if it belongs to a hunter, it’s probably well stocked with supplies.”

“It might be,” he concedes.

“Provisions that I could ration alone for awhile.” The inference there is very clear. Far easier to manage with only one mouth to feed instead of two. And who knows what kind of appetite he might have?

He licks his lips hastily, perhaps sensing the implied suggestion that he would bring nothing to the table. “I could help you hunt. Bring you fresh meat. Protect you from predators.”

He could, but would he? “Maybe you’d get caught in another trap.”

He sniffs. “No. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“You really expect us to be roommates?”

“It was only a suggestion.” He grimaces. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his face. “Now to the matter at hand.”

“What if I ask you to leave? Would you go?”

He scowls at the interruption but nods. “Yes. That would be the debt repaid, I suppose. But it’s dangerous out here. Maybe more than you can handle. Not just us visitors to worry about.” He grins, the twin rows of teeth gleaming brightly despite the scant lighting.

Perhaps in his human form that smile had been ingratiating. Now it was terrifying. Still, you can’t deny he’s made some valid points. You’re not exactly prepared to be alone out in the wilderness. “Okay. I’ll do it.” You step closer and the grin quickly vanishes from his features, a look of eagerness replacing it.

“If you help me stand, human, I can put weight on one side and you can stand on the other.”

You nod in understanding, holding out a hand. His grasp is clammy. You tug and he rights himself. It’s only then that you realize how tall he really is, looming beside you. He places one bare foot down on a spring, depressing it and gesturing for you to do the same.

“Why are you barefoot? And where are the rest of your clothes?” You step down on the other spring, your gaze flicking to the black pants clinging for dear life on his jutting hips.

“Another long story.” He crouches, tucking his fingers into the gaps between the steel teeth of the trap. “Help me pull.”

Bracing your weight to make sure you’re sturdy, you bend to slip your fingers into several of the spaces, your palms resting on the edges of the jaws.

“On three, pull. And don’t stop whatever you do, because they’ll clamp back down again if they’re not opened all the way.”

“Got it.”

“One…two…three.”

You can feel the resistance as you attempt to pull, gritting your teeth and shoving alongside the visitor, your arms shaking with the effort. At last you both manage to pry open the trap, the sides of the jaws pressed flat with a metallic click. He quickly lifts his wounded leg free and you both step away.

The pale visitor remains hunched over a moment before straightening. You stare at the open trap, as if halfway expecting it to snap shut again, then back at him.

“Thank you.” The words are soft, quiet.

You nod.

“Am I leaving?”

You remain silent for a moment, your thoughts spinning. So far the visitor seems like he’s honoring his promise not to harm you. But that might just be because he’s weakened at the moment. Maybe he’s simply biding his time, rebuilding his strength, intending to have you assist until he doesn’t need your help anymore. Once you’ve exhausted your usefulness, who’s to say he’d allow you to survive? You have no reason to trust him…and yet he hasn’t done anything to make you not do so. Yet. “You can’t travel like that,” you murmur.

“It would be difficult,” he concedes. “But not impossible.”

“You can stay until you recover,” you decide. “As long as you keep your promise not to harm me.”

“Agreed.” He bends to retreive the bear trap, limping towards the cabin and tucking it upright beside the woodpile. “Might be useful later. Now let’s see what the hunter has in his cabin, shall we?”

He moved towards the door without waiting for an answer, pushing it open. You grab the lantern hanging on a hook by the entrance and follow him into the darkness.

“Matches,” the visitor says, turning and handing you a box he’s retrieved from somewhere inside. You realize then he can see in the dark.

You strike a match and light the lantern, holding it up as you examine the cabin’s interior. There is no electricity or plumbing, but there is a woodstove. An old couch. A few cupboards and shelves. A full size bed. A dresser. A large metal tub for bathing. A rifle tucked into the corner. A trap door set in the floor.

“I’ll get the fire started.” He takes back the box of matches and opens the woodstove, loading a few pieces of chopped pine logs from the rack beside it and then lighting one of the twisted pieces of old newsprint kept beside the wood. The flames consume the paper quickly, traveling to the nearby bark lining with a satisfying crackle. You find another lantern to light and the room begins to take on a cheerful glow. Your companion lifts the trapdoor and regards a set of wood stairs leading down to shelving lining both walls of a small cellar. “More provisions down there,” he declares, shutting the door and returning to the front door to latch it securely. There are two windows, both shuttered from the inside and covered with curtains. No worry from the sun getting in, at least.

The visitor sinks down onto one end of the couch covered in plaid fabric. He bends over and peels up the leg of his pants, exposing the extent of the wicked gouges left by the bear trap.

You wince, sucking in your breath.

“No worse than bulletholes, really. They’ll heal in a few days.”

Your mouth falls open and he looks at you, grinning at the expression on your face. “What? Shocked I’ve been shot? Or you didn’t know that about visitors?”

You shake your head. “Both, actually. I just know the things I’ve heard on the news. Visitors climbing up out of the ground, pretending to be regular humans. And the ways to test to see if someone is a visitor.”

“You knew I was one without any tests,” he remarks.

“Well, you…I mean, you don’t look entirely…normal.” You set the lantern down on the nearby table.

“Really? What gave it away? My odd proportions? These ridiculous choppers? I didn’t ask for this, you know,” he mutters sullenly.

“Of course not.” Your gaze skitters over the bloodshot dark eyes, past those teeth—God, there were so many—to the tendons standing in stark relief against the column of his throat. Details that you couldn’t properly see in the moonlight are now much more visible in the illuminated interior of the cabin. His upper arms are muscular but his lower curiously thin. His pectorals are likewise prominent but his ribcage is clearly visible. Your cheeks get redder the longer you stare and you leave off your study once you reach the sharp protrusions of his hips.

“Have a seat,” he invites, patting the vacant spot beside him.

You sit down slowly, your thigh pressing hard against the armrest as you try to put distance between you.

“You’re afraid of me,” he observes.

“Yes.”

“Even though I’ve given my word not to harm you.”

“Yes.”

“You’d be a fool not to be, I suppose.” He stretches his bare feet towards the fire. His nailbeds are the color of soot.

“Don’t you want to put something on those wounds? There has to be a first aid kit here somewhere.”

“Save it for an emergency.” The fire pops and sizzles as it discovers some lichen. “Kind of you to offer, though. Or maybe you just don’t like looking at them?”

“There’s probably something here you can wear. Although I guess they won’t be long enough.” You avoid answering his question, hopping back up to your feet and hurrying over to the dresser and rummaging through the drawers until you find a set of pajamas.

“You’re so fidgety,” he remarks, looking bemused when you return with the clothing. “What, no briefs?”

Your cheeks are scarlet now. “I forgot.” You rush back, almost throwing the pair at him.

He clears his throat.

“What?”

One eyebrow lifts. “Are you going to watch me get changed?”

“Oh! No.” You walk back towards the bedroom area, giving him time to undress and don the new loaned garments.

“Alright, I’m decent.”

Even then you wait a moment more before turning back around to face him. As you’d expected, the sleeves of the Henley stop mid forearm, and the shirt is tight across the chest and voluminous around his abdomen. The loose pants likewise stop midcalf, so they don’t cover the injured leg, which somehow looks a little less severe already. Huh. He wasn’t kidding about healing quickly.

“Better?”

“Yes. I mean, don’t you feel more comfortable?”

He grunts, kicking away the soiled clothes he’d left piled on the floor, then he glances at you. “What about you?”

“What about me?” You look up from unlacing your boots.

“Are you going to sleep in that?”

You look down at what you’re wearing. A hoodie. A long sleeve shirt. Jeans. “I mean, I guess I could…”

“And pick something out to eat if you’re hungry.”

“Mostly I’m just thirsty.” You finish removing your footwear and then pad back to the cupboards to find a case of bottled water, bringing back two and handing him one. “I wouldn’t mind a bath tomorrow night.”

“There’s fresh water nearby. A river. You can heat it on the stove. Outhouse in back by the way,” he adds, smirking when he sees you squirm in embrassment once more.

“Okay.” You unscrew the cap and take a long swallow, studying the fire for a time before speaking again. “So. That long story you mentioned.”

“Not for tonight,” he says. “Another time.”

You nod. “Another time. I’ll sleep on the couch. We can take turns who gets the bed.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “It will be cooler by that back wall, away from the fire. You’ll need to share body heat.”

“You mean sleep together?” You hiss, clearly finding the prospect scandalous.

“Actual sleeping, yes,” he says sternly, frowning. “What, did you imagine I might try to have my way with you?”

“I don’t know.” God, you’re blushing again. How does he keep doing that?

“I’m fairly certain a human and a visitor procreating would be…unnatural. Besides, you’re not my type,” he adds, grinning after sucking down the entire bottle of water at once.

“Likewise,” you reply with a shudder, wondering why you actually feel a bit offended that he’d claimed you were undesirable.

The conversation dies down along with the fire. He pokes at the logs, shifting them until the flame strengthens, then watches you walk back to the dresser to retreive another set of pajamas. He turns his face to the side without prompting, but you still feel awkward getting undressed, making the task as hurried as possible, your back turned towards him.

“Bedtime then, is it?”

He rises, stretching, the hem of the shirt riding up to expose the gaunt flesh beneath. You shudder, busying yourself with pulling back the layers of quilts covering the mattress, then blow out the nearby lantern.

The visitor does the same with its partner, the space now lit only by the stove. You feel the chill as soon as you climb into the bed, the sheets cool against your body. It seems he’d been right after all. The mattress creaks as he joins you, pulling up the covers. You divide the pillows, one for each of you. Flatter than you’d like, but then again, you’re not sure how well you’re going to sleep when you’ve got the enemy scant inches away.

You turn towards the cabin wall. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” There’s nothing teasing in his tone now.

Surprisingly you fall asleep soon after, your last thoughts wondering what he might have been like before, when he’d still been human.

~~~

You awaken when it is still dark.

You turn to look over your shoulder. You can faintly see your companion lying on his back, his eyes closed. You roll over as quietly as possible.

“Cold?” His voice startles you.

“A little,” you admit, readjusting the blankets.

“I’ll put more wood on the fire.” He slips out of bed, returning shortly afterwards, once again reclining supine. “Come here,” he invites, stretching out an arm above your head.

You hesitate.

He clucks his tongue. “Or don’t. Freeze, if you’d prefer.”

“Fine.” You inch closer, resting your head on his chest, and the arm folds around you. You immediately feel warmer.

He smells…different than you’d imagined. Like woodsmoke. Copper. Salt. Musk. But not unpleasant. Just…normal masculine kind of smells. Camping smells. It’s oddly comforting.

“Are you sniffing me?”

You tense. He’d heard you? “No,” you reply defensively.

“Good. That would be weird.”

“Extremely.”

You can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Aren’t visitors supposed to be dead? But he seems alive enough. He’s warm. He breathes. He bleeds.

“You smell nice,” he says softly, interrupting your thoughts. “Like wildflowers.”

“Are you sniffing me? Because that’s weird,” you add, parroting his own words back to him.

He hums, the vibrations tingling through your hand. “Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Creep.” You push against his ribs playfully.

“Go back to sleep, human.”

“I have a name, you know.”

“So do I.”

Your head lifts. “What is it?”

“I’ll tell you another time,” he says, his voice thick and drowsy now. “Sleep.”

///After///

The pale visitor settles onto a small hillock near the old farmhouse, a carpet of bleached, dead grass cushioning his tall frame.

Jet is the first to reach him, bounding easily over the terrain, his collar once again jingling with his restored name tag. He noses enthusiastically at the shirtless creature in greeting, demanding pets. The intruder’s fingers long for the thick fur that he used to be able to sink into, but he is still grateful for the care he’s been given. Already he can seen the slow progress of weight gain, his ribs a little less stark, his spine not quite so sharp. He scratches between the dog’s ears, pressing his face alongside his muzzle, and the scent buried there is so familiar it makes him ache. Cigarette smoke and aftershave and laundry detergent blend together in a bittersweet collective nostalgia.

Alexei arrives then, carrying a plastic bag in one hand and his gun in the other, the glow of his cigarette lighting the darkness with an orange ring of flame. He knows it’s the furthest the homeowner has been from the house in a long time; knows it, and takes some small measure of satisfaction from it. He cannot always be the one to come calling, to grovel, as it now feels like. There must be a compromise.

That, and he thinks, somewhere at the back of his mind, that the man needs to get outside, despite the threats and the chaos; that being locked away with the unwanted guests is slowly draining him. And it won’t be nearly as satisfying to bring him to his end if he’s too weak to even realize what’s happening, will it? The cruel thought is there, but it no longer has bite to it. It feels more like a tired rehearsal, a record played on loop.

Yes, yes. Drag him out into the sun once he’s finally alone. Let us burn together. I know the plan. It’s mine, after all.

He watches his former lover descend to the ground, the movements slightly stiff and awkward as the man sets his gun on the ground beside him, keeping the bag positioned on his lap. Odd choice, that, if a threat were to present itself. Now he’s even more curious about the contents.

The visitor notices the thin whine of Alexei’s harshly panted breathing and frowns. It’s more than just labored from physical activity and his protesting lungs still suffering from the effects of the chemicals he’s inhaling; there’s a discernible panic, his eyes darting around frantically, his body visibly trembling. Genuine fear, not from himself, he realizes, but for the exposure. The vulnerability of being away from that scant square footage he’s been cowering away inside. Social antipathy evolved into anxiety transformed into outright agoraphobia. The world that had never felt kind to begin with, that had seemed so hell bent on challenging him, now broken and more hateful than ever.

The pale visitor’s first instinct is to make some attempt to comfort him, but he’s immobilized by his own uncertainty of how to do so. It takes several moments for Alexei to visibly regulate his breathing, to calm his racing heart. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t meet his companion’s concerned gaze, simply lifting his head to regard the evening sky. There, at least, is something comforting to view. A moon that hasn’t turned traitor. Stars that spackle the heavens in tiny bursts of light unlike their other more furious cousin. It is a painting that the intruder himself has viewed frequently since the world ended.

“So the shepherd has left his flock at last,” the visitor murmurs, finally breaking the quiet once the other man seems to have recovered, a few pets of the Siberian Husky also proving therapeutic.

“They’ll be alright,” the homeowner replies, his head tilting back down to regard his features. “They keep to themselves anyway. Quarantined in individual spaces. It just seems to be easier that way. More comfortable. Speaking of comfort,” he says after exhaling a stream of smoke, “I thought maybe you’d like a change of clothing. I don’t have shoes that will fit; I know even these won’t be the right size, too short, of course, but I…” He holds out the bag.

“You’re lending me your clothing,” the intruder remarks dryly. “Yet you insist on keeping a piece of mine.”

There’s a tightness around the human’s eyes, silent lines of hurt. “You want me to give it back?” He asks quietly.

The visitor shakes his head, waving a hand in the air. “Of course not. Keep it, if it’s so important to you.” He tucks the bag beside him. “Thank you,” he says grudgingly. “Did you find my delivery?”

“The case of dog food? Yes, he’s been enjoying it. Where did you find it?”

He doesn’t answer, instead shifting his gaze towards the house.

“You could have…you should have knocked. Let me know you were around.”

“It was a busy evening. FEMA agents swarming,” he sneers, his lip curling in disgust.

Alexei’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly, grinding the end of his cigarette against the earth. “You shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t what? Shouldn’t kill the men who point guns in my face? Shouldn’t stop them from carting off your beloved guests? What exactly is it you think they’re doing with those people?”

The man’s eyes widen, his lips parting to speak but no sound issuing forth.

“You’re selfish, Alexei. Even now. You still take things for granted. People help you and you don’t—” He cuts off abruptly, seemingly focused on a clump of dead wildflowers near his thigh.

“I didn’t know,” he says softly. “I didn’t know you were…doing that. I thought you were just…just trying to upset me. You called those bodies gifts—”

“—And so they were,” he interrupts, plucking and tearing at the withered leaves.

“But the teenagers, Dmitry. What were they doing besides smoking pot and goofing off? Did they really deserve—”

“—Enough,” he growls, letting the pieces fall scattered. “Leave it.”

Silence descends, thick and uncomfortable, until Alexei ventures to disturb it.

“You’re angry tonight.” The words aren’t accusatory; merely an observation. A realization. “Did something happen?”

The intruder shakes his head. “Tell me about your guests. Who’s staying with you right now?”

The abrupt shift in topics seems to startle Alexei, but he allows it, recovering with a reply. “A fireman. Badly burned. I…I don’t think he’ll last long. A man that doesn’t speak our language. His mouth was sewn shut. A fortune teller. She’s always spouting nonsense about the constellations and her tarot cards. I humor her to keep the peace.”

A strange look passes over the visitor’s features at the mention of the fortune teller. “What does she say about your fortune?”

“The kind of stuff that’s vague enough to be believable. She’s always mentioning a dark presence lurking nearby.”

“A dark presence,” he repeats placidly. Internally, he’s thinking of another conversation with someone else about tarots and psychic readings. Alexei had been passed out drunk in the bedroom when he and Irina had been speaking about it.

“What, you think she’s referring to you?”

“Hmmm?” He shrugs, his reverie dissipating. “Maybe she is.”

The homeowner huffs, folding his legs. “Anyway, that’s everyone right now. Not alone yet,” he adds, nudging the visitor’s arm.

The intruder visibly tenses. “Don’t joke about that.”

The other man sighs. “Just tell me what’s bothering you. Please.”

Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. Another echo from another time. He’s very mired in the past this evening. “I was thinking about the broken flower box…Is she gone?”

There’s no mistaking whom he’s referring to. “Yes. She was staying with her sister and they got attacked. Her sister made it; Irina didn’t. I haven’t spoken to her recently. Hopefully she’s still okay.”

“I’m sorry. Genuinely.”

“She really liked you. Well, until…”

“Until she saw her husband kissing me.”

“Yeah. That.” His eyes flick to the hand braced between them, ivory and thin. He settles his own hand over it very slowly, as if afraid he’ll spook him and he’ll flee. “I’m going to ask you again to come inside with me.”

“My answer hasn’t changed.” Surprisingly his hand flips, fingers interlocking with his human companion’s.

Alexei leans, his lips pressing along the curve of one deltoid. “Please, Dima,” he breathes against his skin.

The intruder shudders, roughly tugging his hand free. “You always ask for too much.” He snatches at the bag and pushes himself to his feet, eager to put distance between them.

Alexei stands, leaving the gun where it is, ignoring the dog suddenly dancing on his paws around the two men, sensing something is happening. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“I want you to go home.”

“Come with me.”

The visitor’s spindly fingers close over his throat as he advances towards him, the bag falling to the ground as the tips of his claws press into his skin hard enough to make dents but not quite enough to puncture it.

“You want to know why I’m upset?” He says, fangs jutting out to kiss his thin lips. “You gave up on me. On us. And now, now that the world’s fucking destroyed, you look so damn hopeful,” he rages, shaking the captive man. “There’s nothing to be hopeful about. Nothing.”

Alexei rests a hand on his forearm, not to try to pry him off, just to touch him, to ground him. He hates how gentle it is; how caring. How easily it undoes him. He releases his throat and embraces him, pulling him roughly against his body, his mouth tucked by his ear. “Damn your God for making you,” he curses. “I wish I’d never met you, Lyosha. I wish…” The lie ends abruptly, his face tucking into the slope between his neck and shoulder.

“Dima…”

“Go home,” he says, pushing him away, gently this time. He bends only slightly to retrieve the bag, his long arm making the task simple. “Jet, stay.” He runs his fingers over the dog’s head in farewell, then turns away, walking back down the hill.

///Before///

Alexei isn’t content with just weekends for time with Dmitry anymore.

He can’t make a plausible excuse to be tardy every weeknight, so he has to find another solution: leaving work early.

It’s still not ideal, because it means his lover has to adjust his work schedule as well. But he’s willing and able. They’re making it work.

The place he’s parked his truck is secluded, some forgotten foot path past the ruins of an abandoned church. Nothing like commiting adultery right in front of the Lord’s house, he thinks. All of the windows are rolled down, early summer’s warmth pressing ever closer. They’re both in the backseat, the accountant’s tie tucked on the dashboard up front. His dress shirt is soaked in sweat; perspiration that he tastes with every kiss of his lips, every nuzzle of his throat, the top few buttons now enticingly undone. He can smell the oil still staining his own coveralls, but he ignores it, focusing on the feeling of the man beside him.

“We could’ve gone to my place,” Dima murmurs, palming the older man’s crotch.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He sucks his bottom lip, lifting his pelvis to grind against the other man’s hand.

“You really are an exhibitionist, I think,” he pants, squeezing lightly.

Alexei groans. “Maybe I just like the outdoors.”

“We’re not really outdoors, though.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Dmitry complies, his tongue splitting the seam of his mouth. The vinyl seating creaks as he straddles his lap, his upper body laid as flat as possible to avoid hitting the roof of the vehicle.

“Oh, fuck, yes.” His hands reach for the plump buttocks resting on his thighs. He’s getting more and more comfortable with their intimacy, to the point where he thinks actual intercourse isn’t far off. His head flops back against the headrest and tilts to one side while Dmitry licks along his throat, his gaze falling on the peeling paint of the fence surrounding the ruined chapel.

The dark haired man notices the direction of his gaze, nibbling at his earlobe. “I think you like the blasphemy a little bit, too.”

“Yeah, I’m a real sinner.” He smirks at his partner, smoothing back the hair plastered to his forehead. “I’d offer you the flatbed, but sadly there’s nothing there to cushion you right now. The insects would probably eat us alive anyway.”

“This is good,” he pants, groaning when Alexei undoes his pants and fishes his cock out of his briefs. “Lyosha…”

“There you go. Fuck.” He begins fisting his erection, savoring the sound of him gasping right beside his ear. Precum and sweat stain the nest of pubic hair and the lower edge of that soft belly he’s so insanely attracted to. He loves the way he’s positioned, the cramped quarters making his dress slacks tighten around his thick thighs, the material straining to contain the flesh of his ample posterior that he can’t stop grabbing.

Dmitry leans back slightly, one hand braced against the roof, the other gripping the back of the seat. His hips thrust back and forth between the tight clutch of his fingers and he shudders, a fresh sheen of sweat coating his features. The pace intensifies, then suddenly grinds to a halt as he clenches and erupts over Alexei’s fist, his head dipping forward, pressing a lazy kiss on his lips as his orgasm fades.

“Your turn,” he murmurs once he’s recovered, climbing back off of his lap and opening the door. He hastily adjusts his fly, beckoning for Alexei to move. Once his legs fold over the seat to exit the younger man halts him, descending to his knees and reaching for the other man’s zipper.

“You’ll ruin those nice pants, kneeling in the dirt like that.”

“Worth it,” he hums, his gaze now on the flushed cock popping into view. He leans and drags his tongue over the tip and Alexei’s breath hitches. The technician’s fingers seed in his hair, combing through the damp strands as his lips surround the head of his cock and he begins sucking.

“Shit…that’s nice. That’s so nice.” He watches the other man’s head descend further with each pass. “God, you’re perfect.”

Dmitry’s thumbs, still braced on his thighs, press deeper as he takes more of his cock, pushing into his throat. Alexei can feel the thick saliva oozing over his prick, the tight, wet heat of that channel that welcomes him. It makes him wonder how it will feel to be inside him the first time, his hips twitching forward at the thought, shoving him in even further. He loves that sound, that wet, gargling, slapping sound of shoving his dick somewhere forbidden. Sweat is pouring down his spine. The sun is at its peak, the trees no longer able to shield them. Sunspots stain the interior of his eyelids as his head rocks back, his cock painting the inside of Dmitry’s throat. The kneeling man drags in a sharp lungful of air when he finally retreats, the older man’s softening dick falling wetly from his lips.

“You’re fucking phenomenal, you know that?” Alexei heaves a contented sigh, watching the other man lean back to sit on his heels.

Dmitry grins, dragging a hand through his hair. “Maybe.”

“No, there’s no maybe. You are.” He slides out of the truck, fixing his clothing before holding out a hand to help pull him to his feet. “Come here, you.” He wraps his arms around him, his face burrowing against his shoulder. “God, I would love a nice bath right now. And a cold beer.”

“But you have to get home,” Dmitry says gently, stroking the small of his back, seemingly undisturbed by how damp it is.

“Don’t want to. Want to go home with you. To you.” He draws back, aware of the meaning behind the words he’s spoken.

“What?”

“Do you ever think about it? Living together?”

“Lyosha…” He says helplessly. “Of course, but it’s just…a fantasy. We can’t. You’re married,” he says, hands settling on his hips as the other man begins pacing.

“I know that,” he snaps, halting. “But…but if I wasn’t…”

“You’re not ready for that.”

“I am.”

“You’re not,” Dmitry says, his voice sharper. “You’ve only been at this for a few weeks. I’ve been at this for a lifetime. You don’t know yet what comes with it. The hatred. The cruelty. The danger. Because it is dangerous, Lyosha.”

“I don’t care what some punks say—”

“—It will be everyone. Everyone you know. Coworkers. Family. Every person who lives in this town is going to have us under a microscope, picking apart every private detail. Exposing us. We can’t be how you want us to be in public. It’s always going to be like this for as long as we live here.”

“Then we’ll go somewhere else.”

He sighs. “Lyosha—”

“—Don’t you want this?”

Dmitry takes a step closer, framing his face with his hands. “You know I do. But I want you to realize what you’re really asking for.”

“I’m not a child,” he growls.

“I know you’re not. Old man,” he teases affectionately, trying to lighten the mood as his thumb traces the pattern of freckles until his lover harrumphs, exasperated, and he abandons his efforts, his features solemn. “I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want to get hurt either. I don’t want you to resent me. I don’t want you to feel regret.”

“I wouldn’t. Never.” He braces his hands against his lover’s waist. “I want to be with you, Dmitry. I meant what I said the first time I went to your apartment. I want a relationship, not just a fling.” He presses a kiss to his mouth. “I promise you we’ll be together. Like we want. However we have to make it happen.”

Dmitry draws in a deep breath. “Alright,” he agrees. “Now I need my boyfriend to take me home.”

Alexei grins.

***

Alexei frowns.

The weather worsens by the following Thursday, two days before Dmitry has agreed to come over for dinner. He’s already in a bad mood as it is, anxious about introducing his partner to his wife—and God is that an awkward thought—the presence of a new coworker making his mood even more sour.

He isn’t entirely sure why the virtual stranger insists on talking about such intimate things; worse yet that he’s already openly admitted he’s bisexual. His own heart had pounded once he’d made the revelation, wondering if this wasn’t some attempt to call him out, the reality of his orientation somehow being obvious. But if the other techinician suspected anything, he hasn’t alluded to it thus far, mainly keeping it to crude jokes that he forces a pained grin at just to keep the peace.

Today they’re working on installing a new AC unit on the roof of a modern apartment building, the sun beating down mercilessly. He doesn’t recall a summer ever being this warm, especially so early in the season; it has to be some kind of record breaking temperature, he thinks, dragging the back of his wrist across his moist brow. It used to be a rarity to have a need for these kinds of units in this region, but he’s been assigned to work on similar ones every day this week. When the man beside him begins speaking, he inwardly cringes, knowing this definitely isn’t going to be work-related.

”This reminds me of a job at an accounting office a little while back. Big heating unit busted, took time to repair. They had a fancy breakroom with a whole row of vending machines, and a full kitchenette. There was a guy in there, let me tell you, he was fucking sweet,” his coworker says, squatting down to retrieve a different component from the toolbox.

Alexei immediately tenses, halting mid turn of the wrench in his hand at the mention of an accounting firm, and again at the mention of some guy there being “fucking sweet.” Coincidence, surely.

“Young. Must’ve been right out of school with a baby face like that. And he was tall. Shit, had to be six five easy, probably more. That’s a tree I wouldn’t mind climbing, let me tell you.”

Alexei resumes tightening the bolt, his teeth gritted. A thick trail of perspiration drips down his forehead and halts at the tip of his nose, clinging anoyingly. It can’t be him. It’s some other guy. He’s not talking about my Dima.

“Slutty lips, perfect for a blowjob. Real bubble butt, too.”

The wrench drops with a loud clatter, the bead of sweat jostled from his face. Alexei rises, advancing towards the speaker with his hands balled into fists.

“Whoa, you got a problem?”

“Yeah, I do. You need to shut the fuck up right now,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Ooooh, you gonna make me?”

“If I have to.”

“What’s the matter, jealous that I can bag a young piece of ass like that? Bitch you’re married to is probably a shriveled old prune—”

Alexei’s fist connects with the man’s nose and a sickening crunch announces bone fracturing.

“You son of a bitch!” The return blow lands on his bottom lip and he feels it split open, tasting blood.

They might have continued exchanging blows had their other coworker not chosen that moment to arrive with a necessary part, stopping and staring at the two men fighting for a moment before hurrying forward to break it up. Alexei insists he doesn’t need to go to a hospital and that he can continue working, but policy of course won’t allow that. So he spends some time at the emergency room before he returns to his employer, his mind already working out what explanation he can offer that’s not incriminating.

“You want to tell me what happened?” His boss greets him as soon as he enters the office.

He drops heavily into a metal folding chair. “The new guy was talking shit about one of the clients,” he grumbles, staring hard at the floor.

“Elaborate.”

Alexei sighs, scrubbing a hand over his cropped hair. “He was…he was making sexually inappropriate comments about a man.”

The office chair squeaks as the heavyset man leans back. “Ah. I think I understand. Look, I know how important your faith is to you, and homosexuality isn’t—”

“—Fuck, you think this is about someone being gay?!” He bursts out, then softens his tone, seeing the stern expression on the middle aged man’s features. “Sorry, boss. But no, that’s not what this was about.”

“Then what was it about?”

He scuffs the toe of his work boot against the linoleum. “I don’t appreciate someone talking shit about one of my friends,” he mutters.

“So it was personal, then. You could have led with that, you know,” his supervisor says, studying him above the rim of his glasses. “Look, Alexei, I’m going to be straight—heh, sorry, that was almost a joke in poor taste, bad choice of words—honest with you. You know your father and I were friends. We worked together for years. And you’ve been a good employee, up until recently. I’ve been noticing your time cards don’t match your actual work performance. You’ve been leaving early more and more often.”

Alexei squirms in his seat. Shit, he’d noticed.

“Now I can understand a little cheating on a Friday afternoon here and there; hell, we all are guilty of that. But you can’t make it a regular thing. It’s robbing the company, and I can’t turn a blind eye to that no matter how much I like you and how much I respected your father. Your coworkers like you, too—well, maybe except for the new one—which is why they’ve been covering up your mistakes lately. You’re getting sloppy. And I can’t allow that either, when there are safety issues to consider. So take this as a friendly warning, but take it seriously. Step up. Whatever’s going on with you, whoever you need to talk to or whatever you need to do to get right, do it.”

He hates being scolded like this; it’s worse because he does genuinely like his employer, a worm of guilt now twisting its way through his gut. He knows it’s the truth; he has been distracted lately, his personal life bleeding into his profession. “The new guy sucks. I can outperform him on my worst day,” he complains.

“You don’t have to like him, but you do have to work alongside him sometimes. You can’t deck him every time he pisses you off. We’re up to our teeth in air conditioning work right now. I need the extra hands,” he replies, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief. “This damn weather…”

Alexei unfolds his arms. “I can handle it.”

The other man studies him for long moments, then nods. “Make sure you do. Take the rest of the day off.”

His head lifts. “Wait, seriously?”

“What, do you want me to suspend you? Get out of here. Go home, take Irina out to dinner. Watch some tv and get a good night’s rest. Then come back tomorrow focused on the task at hand.”

“Yeah, fine.” He rises, the chair legs scraping against the floor. He emerges from the building to find the weather has grown even more extreme. He doesn’t want to go home just yet; he needs some time to think. And thinking can be done just as well over a cold beer at the bar as it can be done back at the house, he rationalizes, climbing into the pickup truck, his next destination already in mind.

***

Dmitry arrives home after work Thursday evening, the front door barely cracked open before he hears his phone ringing. He shuts the door and enters the living room, lifting the cordless phone and answering. “Hello?”

“Dmitry, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling for over an hour.”

The venom in the older man’s tone startles him before he replies. “I just got home from the office. I had to stay late to make up time…where are you?”

Alexei’s voice softens at the explanation. “Oh. I got out early. Sent home, actually.”

He can hear voices in the background, the sound as his lover gulps down something. “You’re at the bar,” he realizes.

“Bingo. Knew you were smart. Not just good looks. You gonna stop by?”

“I still have work to do…” He pauses. “You need a ride? It sounds like you might.”

“Mmmm.” Alexei hums loudly into the receiver. “Was just going to have one beer. But you know how it is. Did some shots too.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere.” He hangs up the phone, grabbing his car keys and heading back outside.

He arrives at the bar shortly afterwards, finding the other man perched on a stool, leaning heavily on the counter, a half empty bottle in front of him. His face turns and their eyes meet.

“Alexei. Christ, what happened to your face?” He hurries to his side.

“Got into a fight at work. Some asshole talking shit about you,” he mumbles before taking another sip.

“What? Who?”

“New guy they hired. Real piece of work. Did a job at your office. Talking about your body like he owned it,” he growls before draining the rest of his drink.

“Alright, that’s your last one. Did you settle your tab?”

“I’m not that drunk.” He waves a hand in the air and nearly falls off the stool.

Dmitry grabs his arm to steady him. “Yes, you are.” He digs out his wallet and Alexei scowls.

“I got it. You don’t need to pay for me. I’m not out of a job yet.” He raises a hand to signal the bartender. Once he’s paid he slides jerkily off the stool, swaying severely.

“Lyosha,” he says under his breath. “Let me help you.”

“Thought you didn’t want people seeing us together,” he mutters in a sulky tone.

“Don’t be stupid.” He slings one of the shorter man’s arms around his shoulders, curling another around his waist as he helps him shuffle towards the door.

“Have to piss,” the intoxicated man mumbles once they reach the parking lot.

“Well, you can either go in the bushes or wait until you get home.”

Alexei sighs, half leaning against the hood of his car as he unzips his pants and proceeds to urinate.

“Jesus,” Dmitry hisses, casting a hasty glance around.

“What, like I’m the first person that’s ever done this? Besides, it was your idea.” He tugs the zipper back up and manages to make it around the car to the passenger side, leaning onto it heavily. Only once he’s seated does Dmitry finally leave his side, sliding behind the wheel and turning the key in the ignition.

His gaze flicks to the cut on his passenger’s lip and he frowns. “How do you know that guy even meant me specifically?”

“How many six foot five accountants with a baby face and a great ass do you think there are?”

He can’t help but smile a little at that as he reaches over to assist him with his seatbelt. “I’m actually six foot six.”

“Show off.”

“So he punched you?” He asks as he reverses the car.

“Yeah, after I broke his nose.”

“You broke his nose? Lyosha…”

“Boss called me into the office. I don’t fucking care. He wants to hire assholes, that’s on him. Maybe I should get a job somewhere else. I’ve been there too damn long anyway.” He groans, rubbing his temples. “Getting a fucking headache too.”

“Have you called Irina? Told her what happened?”

“Fuck no. I’ll…I’ll do that after I get to your place and puke my guts out.”

“We’re not going to my place. We’re going to yours.”

“What? Why?”

“Because we both have work in the morning and you need to sleep this off.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“No.”

“Dmitry.”

“You shouldn’t have hit him. This is exactly what I’m talking about, not being ready to handle this. And we can’t both keep leaving work early.”

“What would you have done if you were in my shoes and someone else was saying those things about me?”

“Honestly? Ignored him.”

“It hurt. Hearing him talk about you like that, it just…I don’t know, I saw red. I got so angry. So jealous, even though nothing even actually happened between you.” He leans his head back against the padded cushion. “How do you do it? How do you share all the time?”

“It’s not easy. It’s actually getting harder the closer we get. But that’s what I signed up for, isn’t it? So, I accept it. I keep calm because I have to. Because that’s what allows us to be together. And right now you need to go home and get some proper rest.”

Alexei sighs. “This is insane. We’ve been looking for an excuse to spend the night together—”

“—You’re drunk. And this isn’t the right way to go about this. Please, can you just trust me?”

The other man remains silent, staring sullenly at the red traffic light they’re stopped at.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. I…” Dmitry’s hand closes into a fist, then relaxes. “I’m falling in love with you,” he finishes quietly.

The other man inhales sharply, his face turning. Then he grabs his tie and tugs him closer, pressing his mouth to his. “You mean it?” He rasps.

“Yes.”

A half smile forms on his lips, then he kisses him again. A car horn interrupts them. The light has turned green. Alexei leans back into his seat, his hand now tangled with Dmitry’s.

The rest of the ride home is silent.

***

Dmitry’s heart is hammering in his chest.

He’s all too aware of how heavily Alexei clings to him as he helps him up the porch steps, that awkward moment when he has to help extract the keys from the depths of his pants pocket, his lips pushing hot air against his neck, then the door opening, the commotion alerting the woman inside to their presence.

She’s pretty, as he’d suspected, and her voice is dulcet, tamed even now under these circumstances as she sees her husband intoxicated and injured, leaning on the man that’s been stealing him away every weekend.

The accountant matches her tone, calmly explaining the situation. He guides his lover forward, following her to the door at the end of the hallway. From here she takes over, bringing her spouse into the bedroom, a space he catches a mere glimpse of before she shuts the door for privacy. He paces awkwardly in the hall, nearly banging his hip on the desk just outside the room. There’s a framed photograph of a cat, which is suprising, given Alexei’s claim of disliking them, as well as some books and an old radio. The door beside him opens and closes and the blonde pauses for a moment, the two strangers regarding one another.

“Well, I’ll be going now,” he says, casting a furtive glance at the closed door.

“Stay a moment. Have you eaten supper? I could reheat something. At least have some tea,” she urges.

“I have work in the morning,” he protests, suddenly eager to flee.

“Just for a moment,” Irina pleads, guiding him towards the kitchen.

He sits down in the chair she indicates reluctantly. “Just tea is fine.”

“I’m sorry to have our first meeting be under these circumstances, but, here we are. I mean, you know how he is.” There’s almost a question there at the end, as if inquiring if he does in fact know her spouse that intimately.

“He’s told me about his past. Some of it, anyway.” He folds his hands in his lap, his thumbs restlessly winding in circles. Every time he’d envisioned this event, Alexei had always been present. He hadn’t been prepared to face her alone.

“Sugar? Milk?”

“Sugar, please.”

“I’m surprised he’s done even that much. It’s very difficult getting him to open up.” The kettle begins to whistle and she shuts the burner off, filling two mugs and setting them on the table.

Dmitry nervously spoons in a generous portion of sugar and stirs it, then takes a sip and nods, hyper aware of how the woman is studying him.

“So you’re an accountant.”

“Yes.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“I do.” He relaxes a little. Maybe it will just be safe topics from now on. Generic things. Things without emotion and consequence. “I’m afraid he’s never mentioned your profession.”

“No? I followed in my mother’s footsteps, although I’m not a nurse at a hospital. I work at a doctor’s office.” She blows on the surface of her drink before sampling it. “Do you have siblings?”

“No. It’s just me and my parents. They live in Moscow. I think Lyosha has mentioned you have a sister.”

“Yes, we’re very close.” She pauses, fussing with her tea bag. “You enjoy sports?”

“Ah, not really, no.”

Irina shakes her head. “I’m trying to imagine how you and my husband ever struck up a conversation. What you have in common.”

The words are innocent enough, but Dmitry feels heat creep beneath his collar. “Maybe the alcohol loosened our tongues a bit that first night.”

A small sound that might be agreement at the plausibility of this proposal. “I understand I have you to thank for that selection in my flower boxes. You were probably too occupied to notice on the way inside, but they’re doing well.”

“I’m glad. Lyosha said you really wanted them.” He takes another sip of tea, wondering how much longer politeness dictates he stay.

“Does he talk about me often?”

“A fair amount, yes.”

“Complaining?”

His grip on the cup grows unsteady and he sets it hastily back down on the table. “No, not really.”

“He confides in you, doesn’t he?”

Dmitry squirms in his seat. “I suppose…”

“Did he say anything about having a baby?”

He’s glad he doesn’t have a mouthful of tea at that moment, because he feels certain he would’ve choked on it. “I asked him if he had children. Just as a general query.”

Irina titters, a delicate sound like wind chimes. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to put you on the spot. This probably feels like an interrogation. I’m just…not used to him talking to anyone besides myself, and I’m just so eager to get to know you. It’s such a rarity to find someone who can break through the barrier he puts up around himself. Sometimes it feels very lonely, you know? Like we’re isolated.”

“I think,” he begins, trying to be diplomatic, not giving false hope but not being cruel, either, “he’s at the point where he recognizes that he wants children but isn’t ready for them at present. And I think broaching the subject might actually have the opposite of the intended effect. It’s better to let him come to you when he’s ready,” he adds.

She nods, looking thoughtful. “So he did talk to you about it.”

“A little, yes.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want children? Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “I haven’t really given the matter much thought yet. Career focused, you know. As for a significant other…yes, there is someone,” he admits.

“I could tell. You have the look.”

“The look?” He repeats blankly.

“Something in your features. The way your gaze grows distant. Or maybe I’m a little psychic. My mother enjoyed getting tarot readings. Just for fun, you understand.”

“Sure,” he agrees.

“Is it serious?”

“It’s getting to be.” He wants to sink into the ground. He wants to bury himself beneath the earth and never have to talk to this woman again.

“That’s exciting.” Another pause. “Does he ever say he’s unhappy with me?”

“No,” he replies, meeting her gaze squarely. Blue eyes. Like sapphires. This delicate woman with her golden hair and her jewel eyes and soft voice gets to lie beside the man he loves every night. And he’s lying to her face. They both are.

“Okay,” she says, sighing in evident relief. “So what else do you talk about?”

Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.

“I’m sorry, but I really do need to go,” he says, rising to his feet. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Oh. Alright, then. I hope you’ll still come on Saturday for dinner.”

Dmitry nods. Anything to make this go faster; anything to escape. She escorts him to the door. He walks down the steps of the porch he’d helped rebuild, clinging to the railing. He makes it a half mile down the road before he pulls the car over and shoves the door open, vomiting. It’s only liquid, the tea and bile splashing onto the dirt.

He pulls the door shut and rests his forearms on the steering wheel, lowering his forehead onto them. He’s shaking. He might be sick again. He might even cry.

The sky is that special shade of silver lavender that only a snowstorm can bring.

Yevgeny stomps his boots on the door mat inside his apartment to dislodge the clumps of snow still stubbornly clinging to the treads, then unwinds the scarf around his neck and sets in on the coatrack beside the door. Unbuttoning his wool coat reveals a 35mm camera slung around his neck. He rarely leaves home without it, always prepared to capture any images that catch his eye, and today had been no exception. People watching in his favorite local coffee shop always provides good source material, as does the scenic park he passes by while walking home. He’s looking forward to developing the film once he’s completed his current project hanging in his darkroom.

Once he finishes shedding his outerwear, he fills the tea kettle with water and sets it on the burner, turning the knob until the pilot light catches and a blue flame gently roars to life. Despite bundling up, the chill and damp from the outdoors seems to have settled deeply into his bones. Even though he’s just enjoyed a tea at the cafe, he finds himself craving another. Perhaps this one he’ll sweeten with some of that raspberry honey he keeps on hand for special occasions, or whenever the mood strikes him. He’s just about to retrieve it from the pantry when he hears someone knocking at his door.

Perhaps a delivery of the camera film he’d ordered. Or the elderly woman who lives next door, who often asks him to assist with things out of her reach, like changing a lightbulb or the batteries inside the clock on the wall in the kitchen. He thinks these excuses are less important than her need for company; she often plies him with snacks and prattles about the grandchildren that don’t visit often enough and reminisces about events that were well before his time. He always lingers to hear the stories, thinking about his own grandmother whom he’d been so close to. She’s been gone for years now, living to a ripe old age and then peacefully passing in her sleep. Once spring comes he’ll get flowers and bring them to the cemetery when he visits.

The knocking continues, jolting him out of his reverie. Yevgeny hurries to open the door, a smile ready on his features, already convinced it must be his neighbor, but it melts as swiftly as the snowflakes that had frosted his dark hair upon first entering the heated building. It’s not a delivery driver, and it’s not his neighbor.

It’s Mikhail.

He hasn’t seen or spoken to the man since the night of the wedding when they’d awkwardly parted; he’d been trying very hard to keep himself occupied in the interim, to distract his muddled thoughts. But now here he was, arriving unannounced, poorly dressed for the inclement weather in a thin hooded jacket and trainers of all things. Yevgeny very nearly makes a disparaging comment about his wife letting him leave the house like that, but he bites his tongue and remains silent.

“Zhenya,” the visitor greets him, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he rocks gently on his heels. There are damp spots on both legs from trodding through the wet snow. His skin is even more tanned than usual, shifting from light caramel to a deeper bronze, and it seems like he’s put on a little weight, mainly around his mid section. Vera’s doing, no doubt, now that he’s got someone cooking him three proper meals a day. His hair has grown out a little as well, forming tousled waves that end in a curl at the nape of his neck. His lips curve in a crooked grin, and that is enough to undo the feelings his best friend’s kept wrapped up so tightly these past several weeks, a surge of affection spilling free.

The hand still resting on the doorknob relaxes its white knuckled grip, the door pulled open wider. “Misha,” he greets warmly. “Come inside. Get out of those wet things.” His heart thumps at the end of those invitations. He’d love nothing more than to peel that damp clothing off his friend and lay skin to skin in the quiet dark of his bedroom for the remainder of the afternoon. But he knows he can’t; not on the heels of how they’d left things, so much still uncertain. He keeps the arms that long to reach for the other man firmly by his sides, hoping the slight tremble is accounted for by the chill that’s been carried to his door. He will not lead; it is for his partner to decide the next steps of the dance.

“Sounds like your kettle’s ready,” Mikhail remarks, entering the apartment and closing the door. He unzips his hoodie and hangs it beside Yevgeny’s wool coat, then toes off his sneakers and leaves them in a haphazard pile on the mat beside the boots tucked neatly to one side. He moves about with familiarity, having been here countless times before. There is nothing in his actions to suggest today will be anything other than a casual hangout, and yet the apartment’s owner feels a thin shield between them, eggshell delicate, a light coating of ice on a windscreen. Propriety keeps it in place, for now.

“Yes, I was just about to make something. Let me shut that off.” He hurries back into the kitchen where the neglected kettle whines and puffs smoke in protest. “Did you want something warm to drink? You look soaked,” he calls, bustling about the small room with its single wall of imitation oak cabinets, three above the sink and three below it. A white refrigerator and the matching stove occupy the second, and the remaining floor space features a narrow butcher block counter that serves as an island and breakfast bar that he rarely uses, preferring the comfort of the living room. The backsplash is the handiwork of the previous renter, vinyl decals set onto alternating tiles providing yellow flowers bundled with blue ribbons. Save for the converted darkroom, he’s never troubled himself to renovate the existing space of the apartment. It is clean and comfortable and to him it is home.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Mikhail says, stopping just inside the open doorway and leaning against the wood framing it. He’s pushed his shirtsleeves up in spite of the chill, a diehard habit from years of labor at his craft. The coveralls meant to protect him serve no good purpose, the man more often than not stained with oil from the vehicles he repairs. Sometimes he gets extra hours doing roadside service, and pulls in a little extra cash plowing during the winter. Yevgeny’s gone with him on the latter excursions a few times, keeping him company at ungodly hours while he clears parking lots for the local strip malls.

“I’m making tea. With raspberry honey,” he adds, looking a question to see if his companion would like the same.

He nods, one foot rubbing the top of the other, perhaps to scratch an itch. “Sounds good. So how’ve you been?”

“Uh, good, yeah. Busy with work. Just finished shooting for a university brochure. Big job.” He hastily begins gathering ingredients and places them inside a pair of ceramic mugs. “How was St. Maarten? Spent time on the beach, I see.” He doesn’t really want to hear the details of the honeymoon, but he feels like if he is the one who brings it up, it gives him some measure of control, allowing the newlywed to speak about it only because he himself has given permission.

“Hot. Humid. Rained a lot. But the water was gorgeous. Very pale and clear. We had dinner every night outdoors. All of the restaurants had docks. You could see the fish swimming right under your feet.”

Yevgeny finishes stirring the honey into each mug, resisting the urge to sigh in relief. Safe answers. Her name not mentioned once. There is the slight twinge over the word we, but he can manage that. He lifts the cups of tea, one in each hand, then turns to properly face Mikhail. “I’m glad you had a good time. Want to sit in the living room?”

His guest nods, leading the way. “I was thinking maybe we could watch the game today while we get caught up. Order some takeaway. My treat. Unless you have work to do, of course.”

There is still the unfinished project rinsed of fixing agent and strung up to dry on the lines in the workroom; the roll of film in the camera waiting for its turn at development. There is a deadline for the former, but none for the latter. He makes some quick mental adjustments, rearranging his plans. “Nothing that can’t wait,” he replies. The taller man sets the drinks down on the glass topped coffee table, then settles at one end of the couch.

Mikhail chooses the center of the upholstered furniture to sit on, leaning forward to retrieve a ceramic mug. He blows on the surface before taking a tentative sip, then nods appreciatively at the flavor. “What did you photograph today? You’ve obviously been out and about. Your boots were wet,” the married man offers further as an explanation.

“At the cafe today there was an elderly couple. They’ve been married fifty eight years. Invited me to sit with them. I took down their address so I could send them a copy.”

“That was kind of you. What else?”

He takes a drink from his cup, forgoing any attempt to cool it. His tongue is well used to the elevated heat. “There was a squirrel and a pigeon quarreling in the park.”

“Quarreling?”

Yevgeny smiles softly. “Yes. Over a crust of bread. The squirrel was perched on the back of a park bench, chittering like mad. The pigeon was on the ground. They were both dusted with snow. It was like seeing two powdered donuts arguing.”

“Did you break up the fight?”

“I did. I went and bought a loaf of bread from the corner shop. Tore some slices to pieces and tossed it across the ground. And as you can imagine, even more critters came to investigate. Things became a little chaotic after that.”

“So you started a brawl, in essence.”

Yevgeny ducks his head. “My intentions were good.”

Mikhail hums in amusement, wrapping his calloused fingers around the mug. “Anything else?”

“You’ll think this one even more absurd. There was a plastic shopping bag. Torn. Dirty. A bit of leftover ribbon from Christmas wrapping inside, twisted over the handles. I watched it the entire way home, expecting it to tumble across the road and be crushed against the pavement or balled against a wastebin. Just as I was about to turn onto my street, the wind finally lifted it properly. It caught in the branches of a tree lined with icicles, and it seemed transformed. No longer tattered and purposeless; it was elegant, the ribbon spreading like garland, the floaty strands of plastic garnishing the wood like tinsel. I know it was just rubbish, but in that precise moment, standing and viewing it at that angle…”

His friend smiles. “You have a way of seeing things no one else can. It’s a gift, really. Someday that picture might be in an art gallery somewhere.”

“I doubt it,” Yevgeny mumbles, but his cheeks flush with pleasure at the compliment.

“So, tell me—”

“It’s funny—”

Both men halt as their words begin to trip over one another’s. Mikhail smiles again, and Yevgeny’s heart shifts with the motion of his lips, as if the two are linked. “Sorry, go ahead.”

“No, you go first.”

Mikhail sets his mug back down. “It’s funny you should mention the cafe, because I was out doing errands, just boring routine stuff, you know, and I went by it and I looked for you through the windows, but I didn’t see you.”

“Really? You were looking for me?”

The shorter man nods, leaning back against the cushions, one arm now reating along the back of the couch. “Must have just missed each other. Then I decided to walk here. Left the car where it was outside the store. Thought about stopping somewhere to call, but…”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you came.”

“I thought…” The green eyed man hesitates. “I thought maybe you were mad at me. When you left the hotel early after the wedding…”

There’s that word he’s grown to hate. That wedding. That wedding and that hotel and all the misery it had brought him, mingling with the tiniest fragment of joy. Kissing him. Being kissed back. “Oh, that,” Yevgeny shakes his head, waving a hand in the air as if to brush the words away without any concern. “No hard feelings. I just didn’t feel like there was much point in staying. I knew you were busy. The mattress was too hard anyway,” he says, trying to keep his words breezy and his voice even as he returns his mug to the table. He can feel the heat radiating from his friend, especially where his outstretched arm is so nearly pressed against his shoulders. Is it a test? A tease? Is he meant to ignore it? Lean into it?

“So you’re not mad at me?”

“No, not at all.” He supposes at this point any residual anger has dissipated. Now it is just the familiar ache that keeps him company, whispering in the quietest moments of isolation, taunting and cajoling.

“That’s good.” He genuinely looks relieved, that thin divide between them still holding firm. He offers another little smile before sampling his tea again, then leans forward and sets it down to rejoin its matching partner. “I know I should have come over sooner than this. Or at least called.”

“I could have done the same. You were on your honeymoon. I was busy with work. And you’re here now. So everything worked out. Really, there’s nothing to feel regret for.” He offers the excuses one by one, adding each course to a growing meal. Forgiven and forgiven and forgiven and forgiven. Not forgotten, though. Never quite that. Speaking of which…“Oh, before I forget, I have a photo album for you. Pictures from the wedding. Remind me to give it to you before you leave.” He’s amazed the words pass so smoothly from his lips. A gift of memories from a day that will forever haunt him. He had put the album together and quickly stowed it away. Even though there are many pictures of Mikhail alone, or with other family members or guests, he could not bear to look at them again. It will be a relief when they are out of his apartment.

“Okay.” Mikhail does not seem particularly enthusiastic about the offering, a fact of which Yevgeny is grateful. The unpleasant topic has been virtually exhausted, then. No inquiries about seeing the pictures. No questions about how his spouse is. The groom has his answers about his best man’s abrupt departure, and the best man in turn has made good on his promise to capture the event’s memories to the best of his abilities. There’s nothing left to say on the subject.

And yet, Mikhail now scratches at a loose thread on his jeans, his jagged thumbnail rasping against the rogue fibers, still looking uncertain. He has a bad habit of biting his nails, and worrying at the cuticles, too. “You’re really doing well? You’re sure?”

Perhaps, Yevgeny realizes, he is not as good an actor as he’s imagined. “Yes.” He gives the single word weight, the illusion of confidence. He’s surprised to find he’s been able to maintain his composure so well during the course of the conversation, seated so close to the other man. Internally, his stomach is in knots. He wants to grab Mikhail and shake him and kiss him until they’re both breathless. There is a palpable vibration along the invisible barrier now, a discordant rumbling threatening to shatter it.

Yevgeny retreats, deciding to change the topic of conversation. “So what is this terrible hockey match you’re making us watch?” He lifts the remote from its resting place on the side table and hands it to his companion.

“Not terrible, I promise. Anyway, you won’t mind it so much once you’ve had a few beers and pizza.” He powers on the television and enters the numbers for the local television station. “It’ll be on in half an hour. They have the introduction to get through, the recap of the season so far and the statistics about the players on the teams, you know, all that filler.”

“Riveting stuff.”

“Terribly exciting,” Mikhail agrees, smirking. “Want to order dinner now? Or wait?”

“Wait awhile.” His gaze tracks down to the hand still holding the remote, the bronzed skin with its gold band glinting in the light from the television screen. He hadn’t bothered to switch on the lamps when he’d entered the living room, and now the space seems darker despite the glow of the screen in front of them. The volume is so low that the audio is barely discernible, but Mikhail’s made no motion to adjust it. It becomes a sort of white noise, a murmur to contrast against the quiet snowfall outside. The arm behind his shoulders finally shifts, the work roughened fingertips now spreading beneath the collar of his ribbed knit sweater, venturing under the dark strands of hair curtaining the nape of his neck. Yevgeny holds very still; even his lungs pause to consider the moment.

“I missed you,” Mikhail says quietly.

Yevgeny’s trapped breath finally exits his chest in a desperate rush as he subtly leans back against the other man’s touch. Cracks in the divide forming at last.

“Did you miss me?”

Somehow this question wrenches even harder than the matched claim of its predecessor. “You know I did.” He pulls the remote control from Mikhail’s hand, tossing it onto the empty cushion beside him. Then his hand curls into the thin shirt he’s wearing, grabbing a fistful of sky blue fabric near the center of his chest. “Why are you half naked during a snowstorm?” He scolds, because it is easier, just then, than the other, softer words pressing against the back of his teeth.

“Half naked?” He huffs a laugh. “Hardly. I didn’t know it was going to snow.”

“It’s winter. In Russia. And you didn’t know,” Yevgeny chides. He’s not quite ready to meet his gaze yet, the sooty lashes still kissing the rosy arches of his cheeks.

“As you’re well aware, I’m pretty clueless sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” the dark haired man agrees, matching his word to Mikhail’s. The cracks are widening. He decides then that he’ll stand his ground, testing the limits of the remaining partition. “I’m not kissing you this time, Misha. If you want it, you have to come get it.”

Mikhail’s eyes are lidded, the pupils in the jade centers blown wide. “I want it,” he rasps, leaning over to brush his lips against his mouth.

Yevgeny releases his shirt and slides his fingers along his neck instead, his tongue snaking between the other man’s parted lips. He loses track for awhile of what belongs to whom as their mouths collide. There’s sweetness tucked into one corner from the honey, the smokey tang of the last cigarette he’d enjoyed along his tongue. He smells like the woodstove in the home he’d inherited from his father, the cheap brand of aftershave he still stubbornly refuses to trade in favor of another, a slight musk from where his deodorant has failed him after the day’s activities. Familiar smells. His scent.

Yevgeny moans and lavs and kisses, mashing against his face, the sharp point of his friend’s nose digging into his own, the fingers that had been teasing the nape of his neck now curled around to brace it. He slides his hand up Mikhail’s thigh and halts just shy of the junction of his groin. He sucks on his earlobe and tugs the soft flap of flesh with his teeth before whispering into the canal above. “I want to taste you. Let me?”

Mikhail shudders against him, his voice raspy. “Gods, Zhenya…”

“You don’t have to do it back. I just want to make you feel good,” he murmurs quickly. He knows he should be content enough with just kissing him; that kind of bliss would’ve knocked his socks off a month ago.

But it’s no longer before. This is here and now, bringing with it new demands carried on the shards of that broken wall lying in ruins between them.

Another shudder wracks the married man’s body. The hand at the back of Yevgeny’s neck moves, the fingers now knotting in his hair and tugging his head back. He licks at his exposed throat, sucking a patch of skin just below the jaw. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” he gasps. Mikhail’s mouth is rough. He thinks there will be marks there later. Obvious ones. Signs of ownership, of possessiveness. Not permanent like that band on his finger, but he welcomes them just the same.

“Okay….oh, fuck.”

Yevgeny’s hand has finally migrated, massaging the bulge of his erection through the layers of denim and cotton covering it. He jerks the metal button through the loop and peels down the zipper, sucking the wedge of Mikhail’s bottom lip before he pulls back to regard the other man’s features. “Ready?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

Yevgeny shoves at the hem of his friend’s shirt to clear a wider space and Mikhail quickly moves a hand to assist him, keeping the material raised to the middle of his chest while he pulls the waistband of his boxer briefs down over his cock. It’s not the first time he’s ever seen it; there had been plenty of summers where they’d gotten changed after swimming in the lake. But it’s one thing to briefly glimpse it from a few feet away, flacid and slumbering; another to have it swollen and flushed right in front of his lips as he bends to take the head into his mouth.

“Oh…” Mikhail pushes, his buttocks sliding across the seat cushion and his pelvis flattening as he eases forward. His foot knocks against a leg of the coffee table and some of the unfinished tea in one of the mugs sloshes around.

Yevgeny hums around the taste of soap and musk and the slight salt from the precum beading along the crown. His tongue traces along the frenulum and begins mapping veins as he advances further, head bobbing up and down, hand clamped just above Mikhail’s knee, lips rolled over teeth to shield the sensitive flesh. He tests the limits of his gag reflex, a wad of thick saliva flooding his mouth and coating the prick within it.

“Fuck, Zhenya…”

Yevgeny brings the head of his cock against the inside of his cheek, filling the pocket of smooth tissue and then withdrawing again. Fantasies and porn don’t completely align with the reality, he’s quickly learning, trying different techniques to see what his new lover enjoys the best. His own cock is throbbing; he can feel the wetness from the leaking tip saturating the front of his pants. He wants Mikhail’s hands on him, but he wants to make the other man come undone even more.

Fingers settle on top of his skull and he moans a soft approval, allowing himself to be guided at a swifter pace. Mikhail’s breathing has ratcheted up, becoming thin and whiny and needy, like the whimpers and curses that spill out in between the gasps and pants. His hips lift and he advances even further, properly fucking Yevgeny’s throat. The sound of that, of hard flesh venturing into that narrow column, is so wet and loud and lewd that Yevgeny nearly cums untouched. His grip on Mikhail’s thigh tightens. Air hisses through his flared nostrils. A commercial begins airing in the background, the volume louder than the broadcast had been. An advertisement for window blinds. The ones in the living room are shut. The room is growing darker by the moment, illuminated solely by the television screen.

“Zhenya, I’m going to cum…” His grip on his hair loosens, the inflection on his words carrying a warning, giving him the option to pull away, but there’s no way he’s stopping now. There’s a telltale moment when the other man tenses, his body going rigid, and then Yevgeny feels the hot spurts of release sliding down his throat signaling his triumph.

There’s a definite burning, curiously parched soreness lingering there when his head finally lifts, leaving Mikhail’s cock slathered in spit. He’d heard once that dentists and their hygienists can sometimes tell when someone has been performing oral sex, the obvious bruising in places not typically seen being a clear indicator. Another badge he’ll proudly wear. His lips seem swollen, almost numb to the feel of his friend’s thumb swiping at a thread of saliva still dripping down his chin.

“Good?”

“Are you kidding? Yes, good. Fucking hell.” Mikhail’s head tips back to rest on the rear of the couch and he chuckles softly. “I don’t think there’s anything left. Completely drained. My legs are tingling like crazy.”

Yevgeny hums contentedly, propping an elbow against the back of the couch and leaning his head against his hand as he casually straightens his friend’s clothing with his free one, plucking at the wrinkles and adjusting the garments so that they’re more or less where they should be.

Mikhail’s head tips to the side to regard his face, studying the collection of light and shadow as images flash on the television screen. “You enjoyed doing that, huh?”

“Immensely.”

“Yeah, it was great,” he concedes, scrubbing a hand across his scalp.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Yevgeny observes.

“Yeah. I know I’m overdue for a trim, but…what do you think?”

“It looks good like this.” He knows Vera is the one that cuts his hair now, and if this is a way of depriving her of that privelege, he’ll fully support it. He reaches out to card his fingers through his hair, sweeping the chocolate tresses back from his brow. “It suits you.”

“Then I’ll keep it like this.” His gaze returns to the ceiling, his fingers restlessly drumming a rhythm against his legs before going still. Mikhail plays bass guitar, although it’s a hobby he’s invested very little time or effort into.

A burst of applause interrupts the sudden quiet. “You’re missing your game, I think.”

Green eyes snap back to find his. “I didn’t really come over to watch the game,” he confesses.

“No?”

“I needed an excuse, in case things were…awkward.” One hand lifts and falls, coming to rest not on his own thigh, but Yevgeny’s.

“And were they awkward?”

“No.” He runs his fingers up and down, the poplin fabric making a pleasant swishing sound. “These pants really aren’t suitable for winter either, you know.”

“No, but they look nice with this sweater.”

“That’s my favorite top,” Mikhail hums, his hand inverting, knuckles now dragging against his chest. They create friction against one of his nipples and his breath hitches. “What are we doing about that?” He gestures towards the swelling behind the fly of Yevgeny’s pants. “I wouldn’t be opposed to helping,” he offers. “With my hand, I mean.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Mikhail straightens, sitting up properly, the hand that had been lazily grazing across his body now hooking firmly around Yevgeny’s thigh. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admits.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s entirely the case. You’ve jerked off a dick before,” Yevgeny teases.

“Yeah, my own,” he says with a nervous chuckle.

“Principal’s the same. Stroke until something happens.”

Another sound of shy amusement follows these statements, then he leans closer. “I want you to enjoy it.”

“I don’t see how I possibly wouldn’t.” He decides to get his friend started, unfastening his pants and feeding his cock through the flap of his underwear. It’s a relief to finally be free of the constricting material. “Here. Give me your hand.”

“I got it.” His fingers curl midway down the shaft, overlapping Yevgeny’s. Together they begin stroking up and down.

“Yes, you certainly do,” he hums appreciatively.

“You’ve got a couple inches on me, at least,” he murmurs.

“Mmmm…maybe.”

“Yeah, you do. And you’re thicker, too.” He bends to press a kiss along the junction of his neck and shoulder. “The next time we get into an argument I guess you can throw that in my face.”

“I don’t want to get into an argument,” Yevgeny whispers. “I hated not seeing you.”

“Yeah, same.” Another eruption of applause in the background from the hockey game broadcast. “You’re really warm,” he murmurs, now nuzzling the side of his throat. “Does it feel good?”

“Yes.” He lets his hand fall away, allowing Mikhail to freely rub the length of his arousal.

“What can I do to make it even better?”

Yevgeny hesitates. It feels incredible to finally have the other man touching him, of course; but there’s still one thing that would make it even better. That would send him hurtling over the edge of bliss in an instant.

“Tell me. Too fast? Too slow? Looser? Firmer? Wetter?”

“No, it’s…” He swallows. “Lie to me. Tell me you love me.”

Mikhail’s fingers jerk unsteadily, the smooth rhythm interrupted. “Zhenya…”

“Just say it once, please?” His fingernails grip his arm imploringly, leaving red crescents imprinted along his skin. He hates having to beg. He might even hate remembering this falsehood later on. But for now, he needs to hear it.

The married man exhales, his breath warm beside his ear. “I love you.”

///After///

The water in the bathtub is foul.

Hardly surprising considering the condition the Siberian Husky Jet had been delivered to Alexei in. The dog is very cooperative with the bath, patiently standing still while he scrubs him with shampoo that he can ill afford to spare. He hadn’t really thought about stocking up on these kinds of things; food had seemed more important during the chaotic rush when the world went crazy; that and his cigarettes, of course. Now the damn things were practically a form of currency. He’d be lying if he said they weren’t an effective means of bribery when people came knocking on his front door. Even with the additional cartons he’d collected from a few guests, his supply is dwindling alarmingly fast. He knows quitting cold turkey during an apocalypse is going to add a new layer to this special hell, but he doesn’t see that he has much of a choice.

There had been a young man staying with him once, a stoner, with a healthy supply of weed he didn’t mind sharing. Alexei hadn’t liked the feeling of using it any better as an adult than he had sneaking it in his youth under peer pressure, but he’d indulged more out of politeness than anything, their conversations largely one sided, pleasantly mellow and undemanding. In any case, it had seemed rude to refuse the offerings after he’d demanded to inspect various body parts to determine whether or not the other man was human. It still feels intrusive no matter how often he does it. Peering at fingernails and eyes isn’t so bad, but armpits? Now that’s getting personal.

The stoner guy hadn’t even seemed to mind all that much when FEMA had come to collect him for their experiments one evening, placidly agreeing to accompany the figure wearing a hazmat suit and gas mask, the odor of his latest joint still lingering long after he’d departed.

Alexei had asked one of the agents once when the people would come back after they’d cleared the testing process, and they’d evasively dodged the question, becoming aggressive when he’d pressed the matter. After awhile he’d stopped asking. He thinks he has his answer after all, and it’s not one he cares for. Somehow he doubts that the stoner is just chilling out in some medical facility smoking a joint and shooting the shit until he’s deemed free to return, any more than any of the others they’ve taken are on their way back.

The homeowner’s mind continues to wander while he lathers Jet’s newly trimmed coat. He’d taken his friend’s advice, quickly realizing no comb would ever make it through the matted clumps and tangles. It’s not the neatest job, the razor blades not as sharp as they should be (another hygenic consideration he’d neglected when securing supplies post-apocalypse), but it’s a hell of a lot better than it was. He tries to imagine what the unfortunate animal has been surviving on, then quickly decides he’d rather not know. Probably as gruesome as the fate of the canine’s owner. Hell, maybe the dog had even been responsible for its owner’s demise. He’d heard that happens sometimes if an animal is trapped and starving with a deceased person, forced to consume the one that had once loved and cared for them.

He shudders, lifting the handheld shower nozzle to begin rinsing the dog’s coat. “You didn’t do anything like that, did you, boy?” He scratches beneath Jet’s chin and between his ears and his tail begins wagging. “No, of course you didn’t. And even if you did, it wasn’t your fault. We’ll keep it a secret.”

His thoughts turn, as they so often do, to Dmitry. What terrible things has he done since he’d become a visitor? He’d seen the “gifts” that had been left in the yard, the soldier’s decapitated head and the bodies of teenagers. Senseless violence, not for self defense, not for hunger, but simply for the joy of killing. The actions of a monster. Horrific behavior that his former lover would never have condoned.

But he’s different now. He’s changed, mentally and physically. All that kindness and gentleness gone. The clever romantic who enjoyed poetry and puzzles and flowers vanished. No longer soft and smooth with the padding he’d enjoyed so much. He was so painfully thin. And those claws. Those new teeth and that tongue…

Alexei shudders again, trying to disrupt that train of thought. He was a visitor. He wasn’t human anymore. It was pointless to try to coax his humanity back, and yet…he almost thinks he could. He has to at least try, doesn’t he? He owes him that much.

So you tame the beast. You talk him into coming inside your house. What then? Share a drink? Have a chat in the living room? Take him into your bed?

“Fuck,” he curses aloud. The dog whines and he glances apologetically at it, hanging the shower nozzle back up and shutting off the faucet. He wraps Jet in a towel and begins rubbing at his damp fur.

Could you still feel affection, knowing what he’s done? What he’s become? Hold him and touch him and kiss him? That visitor with his pasty skin and protruding bones, the dirty pointed nails and wicked mouth? A living corpse, in essence? If you nurture him with care, can you bring him back, in spirit if not in actual physical form?

I left him and I shut myself away from the world but it came barging right up to my doorstep, didn’t it? What happens when there are no guests left? When I’m alone and he’s at my door? Plans for us, he’d said, when there is no us, he’d also said. Words said in anger. Not meant. But which ones are true and which are false? Oh, Dima. Let me try again. I’ll do better this time. I promise I will.

The dog shakes back and forth to help scatter the water that hasn’t been absorbed with the towel and he automatically looks away, wincing against the spray of droplets. He can tell the dog is too tired to hop back out of the tub so he lifts him, cringing once again when he feels how light the animal is, the ribs and spine poking through much like those of the individual that had delivered him. He’s still not entirely convinced this isn’t all for nothing; if this is another case of too little, too late. But he doesn’t have the heart to turn the dog loose. He has to at least try to help.

He doesn’t want to disappoint Dmitry again.

The sun begins to creep around the blinds by the time he’s finished grooming the starving pet. He offers the dog a little more food and water, afraid to give him too much at once. Jet follows him like a shadow, padding from place to place, keeping close on his heels as he makes his final rounds to check on the guests who are all sleeping, then enters his bedroom.

Alexei’s too tired to undress, the long hours he’s kept combined with the beer he’d consumed earlier and the adrenaline rush of his encounter with the pale visitor finally overwhelming him. He drops onto the mattress fully clothed without even bothering to shift the comforter. The dog whines and he glances over at it with a sigh. “You’re not going to sleep on the rug, are you? Alright. But this is just for tonight.” He climbs back out of bed, this time taking a moment to fold back the covers before he lifts the animal up and places it near the foot of the mattress. By the time he’s returned to the opposite side of the bed, the Husky has already shifted, walking in a circle several times before curling up beside his ribs.

“Sure. Come right on up over to my side. You’re just like Dima.” He rests a hand on the dog’s neck, scratching the newly shorn fur. “You’d better not have fleas. I didn’t see any, but…” He sighs. “I didn’t actually mind Dima coming over to my side of the bed. I liked spooning with him. Not that we got to spend the night together that often. Why am I talking to a dog?” He wonders out loud.

Jet whimpers and Alexei sighs again, his face turning towards the curtain shrouded window. For the longest time, he had avoided looking at it; now he couldn’t stop gazing there. It had been much the same with the framed photographs placed throughout the house that were difficult reminders of his past losses and failures: the cat that had belonged to his mother that he could never feel affection for, yet still felt guilty about since it had been hers; the picture of his mother in the office, young and healthy, before the cancer had stolen everything away, the image still making him tear up at times; the photo of Irina beside the cordless telephone near the front door, a face he forces himself to view nightly to remind himself of the cost of betrayal before lifting the rifle and resuming his post by the door.

And still they come to me, more and more each evening, and I’m left to judge. To decide who lives and who dies. Sometimes I’m right and it’s a visitor I’ve put down. Sometimes I’m wrong and I’ve got a human being to dispose of. Can’t even give them a proper burial. Just stuff them in garbage bags. God. Do I really deserve all this? Do you hate me that much? Do I think Dmitry is a monster? I’m the worst sort.

He swipes at the tears suddenly pooling against his lids and Jet whimpers, lifting his head to regard his new owner.

”It’s okay, boy. You can go to sleep now. You’re safe.”

His vision blurs as his gaze flicks to the covered window once again, his fingers running soothingly over the whining dog’s head.

“I know, Jet. I miss him, too.”

///Before///

Saturday morning reveals a sky that is overcast.

Alexei scowls over the breakfast served to him, wondering if he shouldn’t change his plans for a day with better weather. He doesn’t want to change them; doesn’t want to disappoint Dmitry. So he dutifully shovels forkfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth and demolishes two slices of buttered toast and vaguely responds to his wife’s attempts at small talk, eager to have the morning ritual completed so he can get ready to leave.

“Did you ask Dmitry about coming over for dinner yet?”

“Mmmm? Oh, yes. He said yes. Wanted to know if he should bring anything.” The lies slip easily from his tongue. He still hasn’t invited him, let alone received an offer to bring something to the meal, although that sounds exactly like something Dmitry would do.

”That’s polite of him. Shows he was raised with manners. When is he thinking of coming over?”

“Probably in a couple of weeks. I’ll firm up plans later.” He sets his fork down and finishes the last of his coffee. “Need me to pick up anything while I’m out today?”

”No, I think I’m all set. Just going to get caught up on some chores. And I was thinking of starting on crocheting that blanket for Ekaterina. That baby will be here before you know it.” Irina runs her finger along the rim of her mug. “Everything’s happening so fast for them. Marriage. House. Baby. We went so much slower,” she muses aloud.

“Nothing wrong with that. Everyone goes at their own pace. It’s not a competition,” he replies a little defensively, rising from the table and setting his soiled plate and cutlery in the sink.

His wife turns sideways in her seat to maintain a view of her spouse, one arm hooked over the back of the chair. “No, but it’s been awhile now. Do you ever think about…?”

Alexei rests his palms against the edge of the counter, staring fixedly at the tile backsplash. He knows she’s looking at him, and he can’t face her when she’s asking such a question. “Sure, yeah,” he says hurriedly. This is not a conversation he wants to be having.

“I know you’re nervous, thinking you’re not going to know what to do. But it’s instinctual. You’ll see. It’ll come naturally to you.”

”It didn’t come naturally to my dad,” he replies bitterly, finally relaxing his grip and turning around to face her.

“Losing your mother changed him. You know that. I’m not excusing what he did—”

“—No, that’s exactly what you’re doing. And that’s the problem. I can’t get upset every time something triggers this, with a child around no less. It’s not fair to anyone involved.” The sharpness of his voice surprises him, and for a moment they both stare at one another. Then Irina stands, walking over to him. “You’re not your father. You’re your own person. It wouldn’t be like it was with him, I can promise you that.” Her voice is still calm, the complete opposite from his own. “And I have always been on your side, from the very beginning. Always,” she adds firmly.

His gaze drops guiltily to the linoleum. “I know you have. I apologize for raising my voice.”

“Lyosha, I know you’d be a wonderful father. Not perfect, because no one is. But you’d raise the baby right. We’d raise it right.” She rests a hand on his arm and he feels his cheeks burning. She’s too nice, too kind, too supportive, too patient. He doesn’t deserve her or Dmitry.

“I um…I’m just not ready, Irinka. I know you’ve been patient, more than, but I’m just…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like the right time.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes rising to meet hers. He sees the disappointment he'd known would be there, making the knot in his stomach draw a little tighter. Bad enough to be cheating on the woman; would it really be such a hardship to just give her what she wanted?

And how would bringing a new life into this situation make things any better? More time he’d have to be home. More things to worry about. An additional noose around his neck.

He hates to think of a child like that. They’re not a bargaining chip or a tool to fix things. You can’t expect them to patch up the cracks that divide people. The gaping hole that’s left when someone physically departs, when they emotionally check out. The divide that’s always been there because when all is said and done Irina was never the right one. A good friend and a loyal companion, yes. Patient and kind and understanding. But not a soulmate. Not his forever. Not his Dima.

I really am a terrible person. Not in the same way my father was, but…just as bad. Selfish. Cowardly. Weak. It’s enough to keep most people away, but Irina took the time to sift through all that bullshit. Now Dmitry is stuck slogging through it, too.

“What are you thinking? Talk to me.”

Alexei shakes his head vigorously, as if he can dislodge the traitorous thoughts. I’m thinking of what a miserable excuse for a human being I am. I’m thinking about how much I want something I have no right to ask for. And I can’t stop myself. “I’m going to leave now. Get some fresh air, clear my head. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

”Please don’t run away.” Her grip tightens on his arm and he hesitates. “I know it’s difficult to talk about these things, but we need to. I know you’re trying. I appreciate you finally fixing up the porch. The flower boxes. I see you making friends now—well, one, anyway. I know how hard it is for you, and I’m proud of you. I just need you to push yourself a little bit further and trust me. We can do this. We need to do this. I don’t want to wait any more. Work is steady for us both. We’ve got our finances under control. The gift of no mortgage to worry about. We can give a child a good life and a secure future.”

”It’s not about money. And I don’t doubt for a second you’d be a wonderful mother. I just can’t do it,” he replies, gently tugging his arm free. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you soon.” He plants a kiss that lands somewhere between the corner of her mouth and her cheek, along the divide between friendly and casual to more intimate and serious.

It’s all he can muster.

***

Alexei’s mood matches the gray skies above.

He doesn’t want to meet with Dmitry when he’s feeling like this; doesn’t want to sour their time together. So he forces a smile on his features and proceeds with his plans. He glances in the rearview mirror at the black Labrador sitting in the middle of the back seat of the pickup truck, tongue lolling out as it peers excitedly out the window. He’d just picked the dog up from the shelter for an outing. He really, really hopes the weather holds out long enough for them to get a good session in at the park.

“Just hang on, buddy, we’re almost there.” He pulls into the apartment parking lot shortly afterwards and parks, turning in his seat to offer the shelter animal a few pets. “Okay, I’m gonna go get Dima and then we’ll go to the park, okay? I promise I’ll be right back. I’m leaving the windows cracked for you.”

Alexei hurries inside the building, walking briskly towards the accountant’s home. He’s always anxious to see him, but today there’s an edge of nervous anticipation and an eagerness to please. He can’t disappoint him. Not after the way the morning had gone at his own house.

Fooling the staff at the shelter hadn’t been difficult; the strangers had readily bought his forced enthusiasm. But Dmitry was different. He realizes as soon as the door opens that the younger man knows something’s wrong, his features immediately creasing with concern. “You okay, Lyosha?”

”Yeah, yeah. It’s just been…well, it’s just been a morning. We can talk about it after. You ready to leave?”

”Yes, I think so. Casual attire as promised.” He gestures towards the sweatpants and tshirt he’s wearing.

”You make everything look good,” Alexei murmurs appreciatively, his gaze sweeping over the way the fabric clings in certain places.

“Stop.” Dmitry’s cheeks redden, but his smile says the flattery has hit its mark.

”Okay. Let’s go.”

They return to the technician’s truck and the dark haired man freezes when he catches sight of the unexpected passenger in the rear seat. “Lyosha, there’s a dog in your truck.”

“Yup.” He jerks on the handle of his door, pulling it open and climbing up behind the wheel.

The passenger side door creaks open and Dmitry stares at him, dumbfounded. “You got a dog?”

“Ah, borrowed you might say. This good boy is from the shelter. Name’s Coal. Thought we’d take him out to the park for a bit. I know the weather isn’t the best, but…oh, hey.” Dmitry enters the truck midway though his explanation, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth.

“Sorry. I know we’re in public. I just…thank you.” He grins, then turns to greet the lab who enthusiastically sniffs and licks at the tall man’s hands.

“S’alright.” Now it’s Alexei’s turn to blush. “Good surprise then I take it?”

“Yes.” He pets the animal for a few more moments before shifting back to face forward, glancing over at the driver. “So, tell me what’s bothering you. What happened this morning?”

”Oh, we don’t have to talk about that right now. I don’t want to ruin the day.” He wishes his emotions weren’t so transparent on his features.

“Is it that serious? You’d better tell me, then.”

Alexei groans. “Irina and I had a little…well, I can’t even really call it a fight, because it wasn’t. More of a…disagreement. One of her friends is having a baby, and she’s catching the fever, you know? Insisting I’d be a good dad and we should try for one.”

“And what do you think?”

“Given my history with my own father…and the timing, it’s just…” He sighs, running a hand over the steering wheel grips once he’s stopped at a red traffic light. “We talked about this that first night, remember? I feel like for her it’s more of a…like a patch, you know? Something to kind of stop up a leak on a sinking ship. I’m not saying she wouldn’t be a great mom; I know she would be. I just don’t think it’s fair to bring a kid into a relationship with even a hint of an idea that they’re going to help bring us closer or “fix” things.”

“Did you say this to her?”

“Yes. No, not exactly.” He sighs, checking the intersection before advancing into it once the light turns green. “I told her I wasn’t ready. She knows I’m still leery about being a father after how things went with mine. It’s not the first time we’ve had this discussion, or even the second or third. I just feel like…she’s getting impatient. Like it’s an ultimatum now. Or about to become one.”

Dmitry nods. “Things are getting more difficult, aren’t they?”

”Not because of you,” he hastily interjects. “I don’t want you to think that. I mean, it is true, in a way. Of course I have to consider how things will effect you as well. But she and I would be having the exact same conversation even if I’d never met you, and I’d be giving the exact same response. Good, it’s not too crowded.” He pulls alongside the curb and parks. Dmitry exits the truck and loops around to the rear passenger door, taking a hold of the dog’s leash.

“There’s a tennis ball back there in that bag along with a few other toys and some treats—yeah, that’s it. They said he’s good at fetching.”

“I bet he is. Aren’t you, boy?” Dmitry massages the dog’s floppy ears and its tail starts thumping like mad, slapping the seats before it hops down onto the sidewalk.

Alexei casts a wary eye on the clouds as he joins his companion, jogging to keep up with the pair already crossing the grass. Once they’ve reached a clearing well away from the road Dmitry releases the lead and begins tossing the ball for Coal to catch. Just as promised, the animal is an expert at retrieving the lime green object, easily leaping to catch it and return it to the tall man who tosses it back across the lawn again.

Alexei smiles as he watches them interacting together. At least he’s succeeded with making one person happy today.

And one canine, too.

Dmitry jogs back to his side, pressing the ball into his hands. It’s damp with the dog’s saliva and he grimaces but tosses it, watching Coal bound away to retreive it.

“So about your situation…”

“Mmmm? The baby thing, you mean?”

“Yes. I think you should be honest. You’re still giving her hope.”

“It’s going to hurt her,” he murmurs, bending to scoop up the ball that’s dropped at his feet, then hurling it in a different direction.

“It’s best to be honest. Then she can mourn the loss of the idea properly.”

Alexei grunts, stepping over a raised tree root erupting through the ground’s surface as they meander along. “She wanted me to invite you to dinner, by the way.”

Dmitry glances over at him. “Really?”

“Yes. I told her you’d come over in a couple of weeks.”

“Therefore ignoring the asking portion of the message.”

Alexei chews his bottom lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to volunteer you. Do you not want to come?”

The dark haired man doesn’t answer immediately, making his way to an area packed with dirt and two swing sets. “When’s the last time you’ve been on a swing?”

”Uh, no idea. A long time.”

“Good. Join me.” Dmitry sets down the bag of supplies and grasps a pair of chains, taking a few steps back until the seat is properly aligned, then swaying forward gently. Coal settles nearby to take a rest, dropping the ball on top of his paws for safekeeping.

Alexei hesitates, sawing at the back of his neck.

“You embarassed?”

”A little.”

“No one is watching.”

He reluctantly moves to occupy the swing beside the taller man, his feet anchoring him in place to keep him motionless.

”Let me ask you something. Are you inviting me because your wife told you to, or because you want me to come over?”

”Little bit of both, I guess.”

”And you don’t think it’s going to be obvious what’s really going on when she sees us together?”

”I mean, it’s not like we’ll be making out in front of her. Besides, you know it wasn’t my idea. I’m just trying to keep the peace. She’s curious. She’s not used to me having a friend or any semblance of a social life. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her I was going out to do this today.” He watches his companion drag his feet along the ground, bringing the swing to a halt, then reaching down to rummage for a braided rope inside the bag, waving it in the air to catch the dog’s attention. The Labrador immediately notices, taking a hold of the other end with his teeth, gently playing tug of war with the man.

”You know I enjoy spending time with you. It’s not about that. It just feels…disrespectful. Cruel to wave it in front of her face so blatantly. And she’s bound to figure it out sooner or later, Lyosha. Are you prepared for the consequences of that eventuality?”

Alexei nervously runs his fingers over the stout links of chain. He thinks about filing for divorce. Dividing assets. The messy fights that are bound to ensue all because he’d finally stopped lying to himself about who he was and what he really wanted. “No, I’m not. Not yet.”

“As it stands right now I have no concrete conception of her. No idea what she looks like. I don’t know how she dresses or what her voice sounds like or where she works or her interests save a shared penchant for flowers. She’s vague, and that’s safe. That’s easier. I can imagine her to be anything I want. Once I meet her, all of that changes. Then I’ll know all of those details. Then the jealousy will grow. The hurt. And it will be so much worse if we get along. If I actually like this woman. And there’s no reason to think I won’t.” His hand goes limp and the dog whines, reminding his partner that the game is more fun when they both participate. “Sorry, Coal.” He renews his efforts, tugging and providing resistance. “I know I signed up for this. I’m not refusing to go. I’ll do it. I just think you should know how I feel. Start to prepare yourself for things that might come.”

”I do want to know how you feel,” Alexei says somberly. “I always want us to be honest with each other.”

Dmitry nods in agreement. “So, should I bring anything?”

The older man shakes his head, chuckling dryly.

“What?”

“I told her you’d offered to bring something. She was impressed, said you’d been raised right. Didn’t make any suggestions on what you might choose, so I guess that’s up to you.”

“So you volunteered me to come to dinner and bring a gift,” he remarks, sidestepping to nudge his partner in the ribs.

”Oof. Yeah I…I guess that sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

”I’ll bring something. What time should I arrive?”

”Around four should be good.”

“Done. I’ll show up at your front door two weeks from today.”

”I’ll let Irina know.”

”Maybe if you adopted a pet it would help with the baby cravings. And you’d already have a ready and willing dog sitter when you needed one,” Dmitry suggests, sliding off the swing to crouch down and stroke the dog’s sleek coat, surrendering the tug of war game once and for all.

”Irina’s never been much of a pet person, unfortunately. She’s got allergies, and I think the shedding hair would make her insane. Oh, speaking of allergies, she asked if you have any. Like food related ones, I mean. And preferences for the meal, too.”

”Very considerate. No allergies. Anything is fine.” He straightens and the dog’s ears perk up. “I think Coal’s ready to stretch his legs again. But first…” He moves behind Alexei’s swing, grasping the chains, his fingers just shy of the other man’s. He leans close, his lips beside his ear. “No wonder you don’t enjoy this. You have to actually move. Hang on tight and get ready to fly.”

”No, wait, Dima—”

He’s suddenly pulled backwards and his grip frantically tightens.

“—I’m afraid of heights,” he sputters, his feet scrabbling for purchase as he swings forward.

“Oh! I had no idea. Sorry.” Dmitry grabs the chain on his return trip, planting his feet and slowing the momentum.

”All good. Just got the heart rate going a little bit.” He offers a shakey smile, peering over his shoulder.

“Well, there will definitely be more of that later,” the younger man promises, one of his hands sliding down to clasp Alexei’s. “Let’s go.” His lips faintly brush the shell of his ear, then he moves away, collecting the bag of Coal’s goodies. The pair aim for the paved pathway through the woods nearby, the dog keeping pace beside them.

///After///

An invitation. Not one. Several.

The pale visitor is perched in the barn loft once again, considering.

Alexei had wanted him to come inside. Wanted him…

Oh. But not in that way. He can’t possibly. Even if it had looked like that. Felt like that.

Why does he still feel so much?

His destiny had seemed so clear before, his plans so certain. To pull the man that had rejected him into the cleansing fire of the sun, to let it wash over them both. A new baptism. An end and a beginning.

But now the intruder has doubts. He had expected anger and fear and revulsion. He hadn’t been counting on kindness and compassion and acceptance.

Will you let him lure you into the same trap all over again? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

Imagine being inside a home again. One that still had solid walls and an intact roof. Sitting on furniture like a civilized creature. Eating and drinking something that wasn’t sourced from some unfortunate being. Behaving like a human.

But it’s only pretend, and you know that.

Holding him in your arms. Being held.

My nails are grimy my flesh is repulsive my mouth is full of tainted rot I am dead I am death I must bring him to Her and THEN—

”No!” His voice rings out in the building, startling him. His eyes dart to the rafters, then to the hay he’s bedded down in. The dusty space cradles him as it always does, with its piles of dirty straw within its pine skeleton.

I want to lie beside him. Just one more time.

The visitor climbs down the ladder, seeking discourse with the stars. His head tilts back to regard them as he exits the barn. They are quiet tonight. Evasive. The sky is hazy and the air feels damp. It almost feels like rain, but it has not rained in a very, very long time.

His dark eyes sweep the fields. His feet move of their own accord.

He is going to see Alexei.

***

In the dream, the Aurora Borealis paints the canopy of sky above.

Lime and magenta waves shimmer overhead as Alexei walks through the fields. There is a tall figure waiting just ahead on the cleared footpath, facing away from him. He recognizes the man long before he draws even with him.

”Dima.”

He turns and smiles and it is his old smile. His old face. He’s human and standing within his grasp.

”I’ve been waiting for you.”

Alexei’s hands twine behind his neck and Dmitry’s hands settle on his waist. The moment is perfect.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

“We should go meet Her.”

The homeowner frowns, puzzled. “Who?”

Another smile, small and secret. “I’ll introduce you.”

“Dima, I don’t—”

“—Come with me, Lyosha. Come meet your fate.” The fingers resting on his waist begin gripping more firmly. The smile widens, his lips pulling back. They keep stretching, blanching as the row of teeth expand. Alexei struggles to free himself, his hands shifting to push at Dmitry’s chest, but he only pulls him closer, dragging the older man against his body. His flesh begins to wither, webs of burst vessels branching across his eyes.

“Dima!” He shouts in alarm. The fingernails digging into him through his clothing lengthen and sharpen. He struggles to breath. The other man is crushing him.

No, not a man. A visitor.

Alexei writhes in his sleep and Jet’s head lifts sharply. His nose digs into the man’s ribs to try to help wake him.

“No, Dima, stop! You’re killing me! I can’t breathe! I can’t—” He shoves at the Husky, his eyes flying open as he sits bolt upright. His heart is pounding and he can hear himself wheezing. Damn cigarettes. He’ll never learn his lesson, will he?

“Sorry, boy. Thanks for waking me up. I was having a nightmare.” He quickly scratches the dog’s head, trying to recall the details of the dream, but they elude him. Something about being outside. Dmitry had been there. That’s all he can recollect.

Jet whines, rising and hopping down to the carpet. He pads over to the window, nuzzling at the drapes and pawing at the wood paneling on the wall beneath them.

The homeowner flings back the covers and joins him. “What is it?” He asks again, but he knows. He knows even before his fingers gather a handful of the curtain, dragging it across to reveal the pale visitor standing outside.

Alexei regards him for a moment, trying to gauge what kind of mood he’s in, but his expression is curiously blank. “Come around to the front,” he finally invites, his voice carrying easily through the panes of old glass sealed with caulking cracked from years of sun exposure before sliding the drapery back into place without waiting for an answer. His pulse is still racing, his steps brisk as he crosses the hallway and unbolts the front door after peering through the peephole to make sure there aren’t any unwanted guests prowling the property. Jet presses reassuringly against his leg before advancing with him outdoors.

The splintered remains of the ruined flower box still cover the ground. He hasn’t gotten around to picking them up yet. He might never do so; perhaps they’ll remain there, a silent marker of a past memory forever shattered.

The visitor climbs the porch steps this time, surprising the homeowner. He immediately crouches to pet the recovering dog, his long fingers sweeping over the cropped, clean coat. The Husky whimpers and laps at his hands, nails clicking on the porch floorboards as his paws dance in excitement.

”Jet looks good,” his former lover murmurs.

“I still need to cut his nails. Going to have to use scissors. Not ideal, but…” Alexei leans against one of the posts, watching the animal and visitor greet each other. “Missed you, I think.”

“At least someone does.”

“You think he’s the only one? He’s not,” he replies, bending and reaching out to stroke over the canine’s pronounced spine. “I’m trying, Dmitry. I know it will never be enough, but I’m trying to do better. Be better.”

The dark haired intruder stiffens as his fingers inadvertently brush against Alexei’s. “Yes, I’m aware. This new crusade of yours. Service to your Lord and charity for mankind.”

“Taking others’ needs into consideration more, yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about right now. I missed you. I miss you,” he corrects, swallowing past the lump forming in his throat, dragging one index finger along the visitor’s. It’s virtually skeletal, parchment thin skin bleached and stretched over bone, the nailbed as black as the tongue he’d displayed the other day.

“The person you allegedly miss exists only in memory. And I won’t compete with that,” he replies quietly, subtly shifting his hand so that they’re no longer touching.

Alexei straightens. “There is no competition. There never was. From the moment I met you I felt it. The connection. The certainty. It was always you I wanted, Dima.”

”I told you to stop calling me that. What part of stop don’t you understand?!” The visitor rises swiftly, grabbing a fistful of Alexei’s shirtfront and hauling him to his feet. He pushes him back against the door, Jet quickly hopping aside to avoid the commotion as he leans close.

“I don’t care if you’re a visitor. Come inside.” He’s surprised how calm his voice sounds. How sure and steady. Inside, his gut is writhing in knots, his heart pumping rapidly.

”Of course you care. Still lying, even now. You’ve learned nothing,” he spits.

“You keep coming back. You wouldn’t if you didn’t still feel something. Come inside.”

“No,” he repeats, but it sounds weaker this time. Less certain. The visitor’s immaculate teeth suddenly part, the black tendril of tongue creeping menacingly between them.

“I know what you’re doing. You can show off those new features to try to scare me all you want,” Alexei growls. “It’s not going to work. I’m the expert in keeping people away, remember? I know all the tricks. The methods and tactics. I can see right through them all.”

”I will put you through this door,” the intruder threatens, his grip on the homeowner’s shirt tightening. It seems for the time being he’s abandoned the use of his visitor abilities, the wicked tongue retreating, the menancing grin shrinking.

“Do it,” the trapped man challenges, chin lifting defiantly. “Whatever it takes to get you inside and stop this madness.”

The tall visitor stares at him for long moments, the bloodshot eyes pinning him like daggers, then he finally relaxes his grasp, taking a couple of steps back. He rummages inside his pants pocket and extracts something, tossing the item at Alexei who easily catches the thin piece of metal. It’s a dog tag.

“I took it off so it wouldn’t make noise and alert anyone. If you’re keeping the dog, it won’t matter.”

“Am I keeping Jet?” He’s enjoying the dog’s company more than he cares to admit. It has been nice, having someone warm sleeping beside him. And it’s another link between he and Dmitry. Another excuse for them to interact.

There’s a long pause. “I think it’s best.”

”Please come inside. Just for a little while.” His hand rests on the doorknob.

The intruder shakes his head. He descends the porch steps, turning back to face the homeowner once he’s reached the yard. “I can’t.”

“You can. Dmitry, you can. God, we’ve been back and forth like this for how long now? How much more time are we going to lose?”

“You left me, remember? Your choice, that you made, alone. For us. When there still was an us. I came to check on the dog. That’s all.”

You’re losing him again. Do something!

Alexei’s palm slips off the doorknob and he lurches forward, hurrying down the steps and rushing toward the visitor, catching him by surprise. He throws his arms around his torso, ignoring the foreign feel of this new leaner, abnormally stretched frame as his face burrows against his chest.

“Oh,” his former lover gasps, startled, and although the word is small, it holds so much feeling in it.

Something wet touches Alexei’s scalp, and for a moment he thinks the intruder is crying; then more drops follow and he realizes the truth, drawing back to see the wonder mirrored on the pale visitor’s features.

”It’s raining.”

///Before///

”Well, at least we got a good couple hours in before the rain started.”

“It was fun,” Dmitry agrees, watching the rain patter against the windshield. They’d just dropped Coal off at the shelter. “Must be hard to go back in the kennel now, though. I hope someone adopts him soon.”

”I’m sure they will.” Alexei reaches over and squeezes his thigh.

”What time do you have to be back?”

“Eh, I said in time for supper. We’ve got a few hours. So, what do you want to do?”

He frowns, considering. “Isn’t there a hockey game on this afternoon?”

”Yeah, but you’re not really into sports.”

“No, but you are.” He smiles at the older man. “We could at least have it on in the background. Watch some of it. And then…”

”And then?”

He covers the hand resting on his leg. “Drive,” he instructs, the command heated and full of promise.

“Driving now.” Alexei turns the key in the ignition. “You always make me feel better, you know? I hope I can do the same when you need it.”

”I’m sure you will.”

By the time they reach the apartment building the rain becomes a downpour. The pair rush towards the main entrance, quickly getting drenched in the process. Another mad dash up the stairwell brings them to Dmitry’s door.

“Quicker than the elevator, right?”

“Much.” He watches the key slide into the lock, following the other man inside and immediately wrapping his arms around him, then leaning backward to shut the door.

“I was going to get us some towels…”

“Don’t mind you being wet and slippery. Kind of makes things better, hmmm?” He licks along the curve of his captive’s ear.

”In that case, would you be upset if we maybe joined the game broadcast later? I think I’d rather head into the shower with you right now.”

“I think that is a brilliant idea,” Alexei hums against the side of his throat. “Want you so bad,” the older man breathes beside his cheek and Dmitry’s stomach somersaults. His lover’s hand slips beneath the elastic waistbands of his sweatpants and briefs to stroke over his hardening cock and he whimpers when his thumb swipes a smear of precum over the tip. “God, you really are soaked all over, aren’t you?” He withdraws his fingers and cups them beneath his jaw, his thumb prying his lips apart. He moans at the feel of the younger man’s tongue brushing across the pad, his hips rolling to shove his own cock against the plump curve of his buttocks. “You’d better start heading towards that shower, otherwise I’m going to start devouring you right here.”

“You’re the one holding me hostage,” he teases breathlessly.

“You’re right. Okay, let’s go.”

They resume their journey towards the bathroom, immediately beginning to discard clothing as soon as they cross the threshold.

Dmitry’s gaze is drawn downward, to where Alexei’s dick is hard and shiny, the leaking tip of the flushed organ now dragged back and forth against his palm as he steps closer to the nude man. His fingers curl, creating a tunnel for him to fuck into, the lazy thrusts punctuated with rough kisses pressed along his mouth.

They finally make it into the shower and Alexei descends to his knees, taking him in his mouth. Dmitry’s head rocks back and he stares at the ceiling tiles, the spray of water spilling over his lips. He feels his erection push against the back of his friend’s throat and his head dips down to regard the erotic display of the kneeling man’s attempts to deepthroat him, the tight heat of that narrow passage convulsing around the fat head of his cock.

”Lyosha, if you don’t stop I’m going to blow my load right now…” But Alexei doesn’t stop sucking and Dmitry doesn’t stop thrusting, his fingers digging into the other man’s scalp as he climaxes, spilling his seed down his throat. He feels that muscular channel working over his pulsing cock as he swallows his release down and that makes another burst of cum spurt from his spasming prick. He relaxes his grip when it becomes overly sensitive and Alexei finally leans back, allowing his spent cock to slip from his swollen lips. Dmitry cups the panting man’s cheek as he recovers, regarding his partner’s blown pupils and flushed skin. There’s a raw hunger there that stirs desire anew even though he’s just been sated.

”Really love doing that,” Alexei says, straightening and accepting the bar of soap Dmitry hands him.

”I’ve noticed. Sorry I went off so fast, I just…”

”All good.” His lathered hands begin massaging his torso and the younger man sighs contentedly. “I have a feeling it’s going to be the same for me. I know it’s only a week in between, but it feels like a lot longer than that.” His fingernail flicks at one or Dmitry’s nipples and the pink flesh instantly pebbles.

”You are such a tits man.”

“And ass, too. Don’t forget that.” He reaches around to grab a handful of one cheek. “Your body makes me crazy,” he purrs, licking a stripe along the side of his throat. The lather is spread out along the rest of his chest and neck and shoulders before he nudges the younger man to turn around so he can wash his back, planting another kiss on his shoulder. His fingers slide between the cleft of his cheeks and over his anus and taint and scrotum, then unwinding and curling around one hip to reach for his prick. He slowly pumps it, coating it with soapsuds before setting the bar back on the shelf and running his hands through the streaming water to help rinse his body.

”Alright. Your turn.” Dmitry murmurs, ready to please his partner now. He begins washing him, teasingly avoiding his throbbing cock while he scrubs everything else, then finally grasps the heated flesh, jerking it beneath the spray of water.

“Dima, fuck.”

The faucet is shut off and the pair exit the shower. Towels barely brush their skin before they make their way to the adjoining bedroom.

“We still seem to be quite wet,” Alexei notes, capturing the younger man’s wrists and pinning them overhead as they sink onto the matress.

Dmitry grins. “I have a feeling we’ll be back in the shower again before the afternoon is over. Now lie down. My turn.”

The older man complies, releasing his hold and flopping down beside him. Dmitry slips his tongue between his lips and lets his fingernails rake down his ribs, making the other man shiver. When they part for air he regards his lover’s face closely. “What do you think about trying something new today?”

”What did you have in mind?”

”I want to feel you. Inside. Just one finger to start with, using plenty of lube, of course. I promise I’ll make it good for you.”

Alexei hesitates, combing his fingers through the other man’s damp bangs. “Yeah, okay.”

”You sure? You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to. Go for it.”

”Alright. Get comfortable.” He reaches for the lubricant while the other man repositions himself, straightening himself out lengthwise across the bed.

”Ready.”

Clear liquid oozes from the end of the tube and coats Dmitry’s fingers. His thumb smears it around his first two digits, then he nods for Alexei to spread his legs wider apart. His slick fingers find their target, massaging the opening before beginning to apply pressure. He feels him immediately clench against the attempted intrusion.

“You have to relax. Bear down. It’ll make it easier to slide inside your body.”

”Sorry. Nervous, I guess.” He offers a shakey grin. “This is all new territory for me.”

”I know. I’ll be gentle. And if you feel uncomfortable, we’ll stop.”

He nods and Dmitry tries again. This time he’s successful, the tip of his middle finger slipping past the ringed muscular barrier.

Alexei sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, fuck.”

”You okay?”

”Yeah, it’s just…I don’t know how to describe it. It stings a little but it’s…fuck, keep going.”

He continues with short, gentle thrusts in and out as far as the first knuckle initially, then advancing a little deeper each time until he reaches the next joint.

”What does it feel like? To you, I mean?”

”Hot. Snug. Smooth.” Dmitry shifts closer, curling his finger to probe for his prostate. “And this…like a sponge.”

Alexei tenses, gasping at the new sensation. A bead of precum leaks from his cock and Dmitry bends to lap it up.

”Oh, that feels really good.”

The younger man smiles indulgently, his lips fitting around the fat mushroom head of his lover’s cock, his finger setting a steady rhythm of pumps and curls, tapping against that secret place inside of him. He gradually introduces a second finger once he feels Alexei relax and loosen a little more, rewarded with a fist in his hair and the cock he’s sucking on shoved deeper down his gullet.

The other man’s breathing grows ragged. “I want to do this to you next time. God, that mouth and those fingers are so perfect…”

Dmitry hums around his arousal, picking up the pace. The wet sound of his lover’s cock striking his throat competes with his moans and pants. The fist in his hair tightens. “I’m coming. Swallow it, Dima, take all of it. Oh God, yes….” His pelvis arches up and a large volume of sperm erupts down his throat.

The dark haired man’s throat convulses and he gulps down the semen quickly. His head lifts, mouth popping wetly as he gasps for air, leaving Alexei’s softening cock slathered in saliva while he withdraws his fingers.

“So that’s what I’ve been missing out on all this time, huh? Fuck. My entire body is tingling.” His bent legs unfold and he stretches.

“I’ll be right back. Want a beer?”

”Mmmm…not yet.”

Dmitry nods, disappearing into the bathroom. He washes his hands and returns with a towel. “To wipe you off. Going to be extra sensitive, so brace yourself.”

Alexei hisses when the material strokes over his perineum. “Yeah, you’re not kidding.”

”Sorry.” He balls up the towel and tosses it, aiming for the laundry hamper and successfully dunking the shot.

The other man flings one arm out, nodding for Dmitry to occupy that opening. He shifts positions, climbing up the mattress and curling up beside his partner. Alexei lazily strokes his fingers back and forth across his shoulder, his gaze wandering to a slender book resting on the nightstand. “What’s that?”

”Hmmm? Oh, the book? It’s poetry.”

“I’d like you to read some for me.” He exhales, his breath still shuddering as he continues to recover post climax. “Gonna need a cigarette before we do anything else, though. In a few minutes,” he adds, brushing a kiss across Dmitry’s forehead. “For now I’d just like to rest here like this.”

///After///

The rain soaks the pale visitor’s bare skin.

It drenches his hair, plastering it against his skull as he tips his head back, letting it spill over his parted lips. He’d thought it might taste strange somehow; tainted, perhaps. But he detects nothing amiss, the flavor pure.

His face lowers, his damp mouth now pressed close to Alexei’s sodden cheek. The urge to return the man’s embrace is overhelming. His arms tremble with the force necessary to restrain them, keeping them by his sides. “You should go in the house,” he says softly. The anger he’d felt earlier has dissolved. Now there is just sadness. Aching loneliness. Regret.

”Not without you.” He still clings to him like he’s a lifeline, his arms curled tightly around his chest.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he scolds gently, his face shifting so that his lips nearly but don’t quite kiss his face.

“I’ll survive.”

”So damn stubborn.”

Alexei draws back slightly. Droplets cling to his eyelashes. “We can make this work.”

”No, we can’t.”

“Yes, we can.” His nose brushes his, his lips drawing closer.

”Don’t,” the visitor pleads, the word choked. “I can’t endure another rejection. You don’t want this.”

Alexei’s hands cradle his jaw. “It wasn’t just about your looks. It was everything about you. Your intelligence and your compassion. The way you could make it feel like the whole world paused around us. How you could reach all those things I’d kept hidden from everyone else. How careful you were with them. When you—”

“—Stop. Don’t do this. Not now. Not when it’s too late,” the intruder interrupts.

“It’s not too late. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“No.” Hands clamp around his wrists, dragging them downward. “Get away from me. Go back in the house.” He shoves until the other man staggers, his work boots skidding along the mud forming on the ground.

”I’m not giving up on you,” Alexei says, his voice so quiet it can barely be heard beneath the storm. “Will you come back tomorrow night?”

The visitor swallows and nods. “Yes.”

“So I’ll see you then. And I’ll ask you to come inside again. I’ll keep asking, every single night. As many times as it takes.” He watches helplessly as his former lover retreats back to the fields. So close. He’d really thought, for a moment there, he was actually getting through to him. He still believes he can.

Mikhail kisses with teeth.

Hungry and urgent, the kind that leave behind marks. His stubble scrapes Yevgeny’s skin, making the already flushed flesh even more crimson. He likes the rough grip of his fingers in his raven hair, the way his thumb rests against the rings of cartilage in his throat, just slightly compressing his airway. Furious kisses. The kind that press wet lines along his carotid pulse. That find that delicate little spot behind his ear where the skin is thinner, where nothing really touches unless it’s deliberate. It makes him shiver. Misha’s breath is harsh against his ear. A thin wheezing whine can be heard, musical where it shouldn’t be, his own airway compromised. Those damn cigarettes. And here he is, bringing him more, a fresh pack stowed in his luggage along with a new butane lighter. Just in case he needs it. Killing him with kindness, but how do you stop an addict? How do you stop the want, the need, the pleasant memories of before, knowing the brief bliss of after?

“We have to stop.”

The words shatter the moment Yevgeny had momentarily found himself in. His eyes open to discover another pair with blown pupils regarding his features. There is the want, unsated, likely mirrored in his own.

“Why?” He whispers, genuinely confused. He’s breathless, panting. The room seems to spin a little. Still drunk. Before on the alcohol, now intoxicated by the man standing in front of him. He still has a hold of his shirt. It’s a mass of creases. One of the buttons seems to be missing. Did he hear the plastic as it struck the floor? No. Masked by everything else, then. But it can’t have gone far.

“Because, Zhenya. Jesus, look at us.” Without waiting for a response the married man returns to the sink, cranking on the faucet and using the water to scrub away the blood smeared over his lips and chin and cheeks. His blood. From his mouth. From the cut Misha had inflicted.

The injured man rises from his perch on the toilet, clutching the edge of the counter as he absently touches his bottom lip with his free hand to find it wet. Bleeding again. Well, no wonder with those violent kisses. He doesn’t mind. Not at all. He’d endure a hundred more wounds if it meant the reward of that mouth on his again.

“Don’t look at me like that.” This directed at his reflected self in the hotel bathroom’s mirror.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to…fuck, I don’t know. Eat me alive.”

“I do want to do that,” he says, the words wistful in his own ears. His tongue darts out to swipe at his laceration, finding it coppery. It stings. His lips look puffy, his face and neck red from the abrasive scape of his best friend’s five ’o clock shadow. The nailbeds of the fingers gripping the counter are blanched from the force he’s using to keep himself upright, to hold himself back. He wants to move closer. He wants to fall on his knees and peel open those trousers because he can see the obvious arousal pressing there. Denial won’t work anymore. There is a return, at least, of the lust, if not the love. He’ll take it. If that’s all that’s being offered, he’ll be satisfied.

“Zhenya, no.” Mikhail sounds alarmed now, taking another step back. Panicked about his friend’s intentions, or his own? “Christ, I have to get myself together. What time is it?” He shoves at the sleeve of his jacket and the cuff of his dress shirt, glancing at his wristwatch. “I need to go. I wish I had a cigarette,” he mutters.

“I’ve got a pack. And a lighter, too. You can’t smoke in the room, though. The smoke alarms…”

“I’ll go on the balcony, then.”

“It’s below freezing outside.”

“I don’t care. I need the fresh air anyway.”

Here is where Yevgeny typically would argue that the air isn’t fresh when he’s polluting his lungs with carcinogens, but tonight he remains silent. He waits for the groom to exit the bathroom, then walks towards the bed, unzipping the luggage tote perched on the edge of the mattress and retrieving the promised items. He hands them to Mikhail, then drags the heavy curtain aside that shields the sliding glass doors, unlocking them and creating an opening for the other man to pass through, a blast of chill air flooding the hotel room.

Mikhail steps out onto the small concrete balcony that overlooks the rear parking lot and the forested area behind it. He tears open the pack and withdraws a cigarette, tucking it between his lips while he struggles to light it, cupping one hand close to his mouth to shield the flame. At last he’s successful, producing a cloud of smoke before he pockets the items and folds his arms tightly against his chest in an attempt to conserve warmth.

Yevgeny joins him, spreading his suit jacket over the smoking man’s shoulders as he exits the room, then moves to stand beside his friend.

Mikhail casts a quick glance in his direction, noting he’s still only wearing the dress shirt and vest.

“You’re going to catch pneumonia. Not to mention an extra charge for the cleaning bill. Take this back.” He begins to remove the additional layer of clothing he’s been gifted but his companion holds up a hand.

“I’m alright. You need it more than me. Besides, I don’t mind the cold. You know me. Polar bear.” He thumps a fist against his chest, then tilts his head back to study the sky. “Smells like snow.”

The groom grunts, flicking ashes onto the concrete before taking another drag. “The weather forecast called for a few inches.” His gaze slides to view the taller man standing beside him. “Your lip stopped bleeding again.”

“Hmmm? Oh. Good.” His breath clouds the air in front of him, mirroring the exhalation of the other man. “So Misha, about what happened…”

“No. We’re not going to talk about that right now. You said it can wait. So it can wait.”

“Yes, but that was before you kissed me.”

Mikhail’s head whips back and forth, as if afraid they’re going to be overheard. Like anyone else would be crazy enough to be standing on a balcony late at night in winter. “Keep your voice down.”

Yevgeny shakes his head, shuffling his feet along the cement. “No one’s listening.”

The end of the cigarette glows defiantly. “I want to be clear about something. I don’t want to hurt Vera. She’s done nothing to deserve it. You can’t tell anyone about what happened tonight.”

“Who would I tell?”

“And I can’t accept that letter. If she or anyone else found it…”

“I know. It was as much for me as for you. I had to get my feelings out. I thought it would help more than it actually did, though.”

Mikhail takes another drag. “So what happens now?”

“You go upstairs to your wife. And then…we’ll see.”

“I love her,” he says softly. “I wanted to marry her. I don’t want to cheat. I don’t want to lie. I’ve already done both and it’s only been a few hours.” He scrubs a hand through his cropped hair.

“I know.”

“It hurts,” he admits, grinding out the stub of his cigarette against the iron railing.

“Yes, it does,” he replies quietly.

Mikhail returns to the room and Yevgeny follows, securing the door and sliding the curtain back into place.

“How do you stand it?” The newlywed asks.

The taller man hesitates, collecting his thoughts before responding. “It’s a decision you have to make for yourself. Is it worth the pain, if the trade off is having some measure of happiness, some stolen moments here and there? To see the other person content, thriving? I decided yes, it was, a long time ago.”

The groom slips the loaned jacket off and hands it to his friend. “I’m not gay, you know.”

“No, I never said you were.”

“I’ve never even considered being with a man. It’s not…” He turns the band on his ring finger nervously. “I don’t know what this is,” he concludes helplessly.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be labeled.”

Mikhail shakes his head in frustration. “Doesn’t it bother you? Knowing I belong to someone else? That you have to share me?”

“I told you, it’s a condition I’ve learned to accept.”

“But you shouldn’t have to. You deserve someone of your own.”

Yevgeny chuckles bitterly. “Gods, no. We don’t need to bring another person into this.”

“I can’t be what you want me to be, Zhenya,” he says gently. “Beyond friendship, I can’t promise anything. I don’t want to mislead you.”

“I know.”

He sighs heavily. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

Yevgeny nods, escorting the married man to the door. He bends to retrieve the fallen pages of the letter, folding them back together.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” Mikhail promises.

“Okay.”

“I’m…I don’t know what else to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

He hesitates, then embraces his friend, pulling away hurriedly. “Goodnight, Zhenya.”

“Goodnight, Misha.”

He watches the door click shut, standing there for a few moments, staring at the posted emergency fire directions before he finally secures the dead bolt and turns back towards the bedroom.

He thinks about taking a shower. Sliding beneath the covers, maybe leaving the television on for background noise.

He thinks about Misha in the honeymoon suite, consummating his marriage.

The fingers still holding the letter curl into a fist, crumpling the pages. He can’t do it. He can’t spend the night here torturing himself with thoughts of what’s going on several floors above. He can’t stay in this place now that it’s filled with memories of an almost, might have been, so close to intimacy encounter with the man he’s fallen in love with.

The photographer retrieves the suit jacket from the bed, slipping it back on and zipping up his luggage. The scent of cigarette smoke makes his hands unsteady, temporarily overwhelming him. He closes his eyes and takes slow, deep breaths.

Then he lifts the tote off the bed and wheels it across the carpet, unlocking the door and exiting the hotel room for the final time.

~💐~

Mikhail makes it several steps down the hallway before he has to stop, leaning against the wall.

I can’t do this. I can’t go upstairs and pretend nothing’s happened. I can’t…

You have to. You don’t have any other choice. You made your decision. It’s too late for regrets.

Do I regret it? Yes. No. He casts a glance down the corridor, in the direction he’d just come from. He actually considers returning to Yevgeny’s room. To do what, he isn’t certain about. To talk some more? To apologize? To kiss him again? Why is that final option the one screaming the loudest in his brain, demanding attention?

His eyes flick to the gold band around his finger and he straightens, resuming his journey towards the elevator.

He’s going to tell Vera the truth.

Not all of it, of course; not the part about the confession and the kisses. Just the details about them having an argument. It’ll explain why he’s taken so long to get to the room to meet her, to excuse any odd behavior he’ll inevitably be displaying. A little truth mixed in with a whole bunch of lies.

He jabs angrily at the button to call the elevator. When the doors slide apart they reveal a couple of guests from the wedding. He forces a smile on his face, nodding at their congratulations. The ride to their floor seems to take forever. It’s a relief when they’re finally gone, when he’s finally arrived at his destination.

Until it isn’t.

Until he’s standing outside the door, everything he’s rehearsed suddenly evaporating. What had he planned on saying again?

His hands fumble with the leather billfold in his pocket, fishing through the sections filled with credit cards and coupons, his driver’s license and car registration and an old photo of he and Zhenya when they were kids.

I don’t even have a picture of Vera in here, he thinks, holding the dogeared photograph. He remembers this day. The start of summer holiday after classes were finished. They’d gone swimming. The water was still too cold, but they’ll gone anyway, then dried off and went out to eat. Someone at the fast food restaurant had snapped the photo for them. Zhenya had always had a camera with him, even back then.

He slips the picture back in the slot, rummaging until he finds the hotel key card. The light turns green and the lock beeps, signaling it’s time for him to enter.

Mikhail opens the door.

~💐~

Vera is in the shower.

He greets her through the curtain before returning to the bedroom to open his luggage. Razor. Shaving cream. Boxer briefs. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. One by one he collects what he needs and gathers them into a pile. By the time he returns to the bathroom his bride has finished bathing, the mirror fogged up as she steps from the tub.

“You could have joined me, you know,” she teases, planting a kiss against his spine, her nose wrinkling at the scent of the cigarette he’d just smoked.

“Yeah, I just really need to shave. Get cleaned up. You know.”

“How did everything go with Zhenya?” She towels off, then wraps it around her and wipes at the mirror before beginning to brush through her damp golden ringlets.

“Uh…” He clears his throat midway through removing his shirt, cursing when he notices one of the buttons is missing. “Shit. We uh…had a little argument.”

His wife pauses, turning to face him. “No, really? You’re like brothers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two of you quarrel before. What was it about?”

“Nothing, really. Just stupid stuff.” He lifts his undershirt off. “Like I said, the champagne didn’t agree with him.” He wets his face and neck, then reaches for the shaving cream. There’s a red fleck on the side of his throat that he knows is from Zhenya’s busted lip and he hurriedly conceals it with lather. It’s a wonder he didn’t get any blood on his clothing.

“I can’t even picture it. He’s always so calm. Did you sort it out?” She finishes brushing her hair, then begins applying lotion to her face.

“Kind of. I don’t know. We’ll have to talk some more.” The razor rasps loudly against his cheek. He can feel the sting of a cut left in its wake, the telltale ruby line appearing seconds later.

“You should visit him first thing tomorrow morning. Don’t let things fester.”

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Another nick. He hasn’t done this poorly since he was a teenager shaving for the first time.

“I’ll come with you if you want.”

“No, I’ve got it.”

“Well, you certainly don’t have this. You’re tearing yourself to ribbons. Hand me the razor.”

He flicks the dollop of foamy cream and shorn facial hair free of the blades before relinquishing it to her.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s alright. You just had a fight with your best friend. You’re allowed to be upset.” She nudges his chin upward and he lifts it higher, allowing her to neatly scrape along his throat.

“But not tonight. I shouldn’t be distracted tonight.”

“Well, that’s alright. Other grooms have done plenty worse on their wedding nights, I’m sure.”

“Y…yeah,” he chuckles nervously. “I suppose so.”

“Alright, rinse that off and see if I missed any spots.”

Mikhail turns on the faucet and cups his hands beneath the stream of water, a flashback of his trip to the hotel lavatory earlier after Yevgeny had kissed him bursting through his thoughts. He quickly splashes his face and neck, telling himself he needs to focus on the woman standing beside him.

“Well?” His head lifts, the water droplets trickling over his features as he regards his spouse.

“Very handsome.” She rubs a thumb over his cheek, then leans over to kiss it. “Hurry up and finish in here so we can go to bed. I want to curl up with my new husband.”

He forces a grin, watching her exit the bathroom before he rinses his toothbrush and squeezes toothpaste over the bristles. He’s always been too rough when brushing, and tonight is no exception. He aggressively scrapes his gums as well as his teeth when he bears down too hard, then rinses and begins the task again, making sure to scrape his tongue, too. He doesn’t want to taste like cigarettes.

Or Zhenya.

Stop it.

Mikhail finishes stripping and steps into the shower, spending a few moments just letting the strong jets of water pelt his skin. Good water pressure. He wishes it was this forceful at home.

He reaches for the bar of soap his wife had used, some lavender kind whose perfumed fragrance already fills the air. He runs his fingers over his collarbones and shoulders and dips beneath his armpits. Was Zhenya showering now, too? Or had he simply gone to bed? Probably thinking about what had happened earlier. What he wishes would have happened. Maybe touching himself…

No. Absolutely not. Do not think about that.

But he does. He thinks about watching the other man jerk off. He thinks about the way he’d looked at him in the bathroom, saying he wanted to eat him alive. How much his own cock had liked that suggestion, lifting against the seam of his pants. He’s hard again at the memory and he brings the sudsy palm of his right hand down to his erection. This was a good thing though, right? He could just march right into the bedroom and fuck his new bride with her none the wiser about the real source of his arousal.

Or he could just masturbate right now. Blow his load against the wall of the shower, watching potential future generations wash down the drain, then plead fatigue and intoxication and a lingering discontent with his best friend as plausible excuses for why he can’t perform. Which lie was worse?

He moves the lather elsewhere. No. He’s not going to do that. He’s not going to stroke his dick and think about his best friend’s hand in place of his own. He’s got his wife waiting for him in the next room. Probably wearing some sexy lingerie. She’s a good lover. They’ll have a good time. He’s going to enjoy it and be grateful such a wonderful person chose grouchy old him to spend the rest of her life with. And he is not, repeat not, going to disrespect her by fantasizing about another man while they’re doing it. He’s certainly not going to kiss him ever again. Maybe they’ll only hang out in public places in the future. Eliminate the possibility of temptation entirely.

He shuts the faucet off, still hard and aching. And although he tells himself repeatedly that it’s for the blonde woman who is indeed wearing a skimpy lace number that ordinarily would set his pulse on fire, even if his body seemingly falls for the ruse, his mind knows better. It shifts the blonde curls to dark silken strands, the golden skin to pale flesh. The rounded jaw becomes more sharply angled, the throat thicker. The soft curves of her body could just as easily belong to his best friend, handfuls of plump rolls pinched along breasts and ribs and stomach and buttocks. He gets no further than those illusions before his cock erupts, the orgasm punching out of him fast and hard. He has to bite into the pillow beside Vera’s face to stifle the name that nearly escapes his lips.

“Sorry,” he pants beside her cheek when he recovers. “I didn’t mean to go off that fast.” He flops down beside her, turning onto his back.

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m glad you enjoyed the lingerie. Don’t worry, we have the rest of our lives together.” She turns on her side, snuggling against him.

“I can still…”

“It’s okay. I’m pretty tired. Let’s get some rest.”

“You sure? I feel bad.”

“Don’t. I had a wonderful day. I love you.” Her face lifts to plant a kiss on his jaw, then she resumes her previous position, using his pectoral muscle and shoulder as a pillow.

“Love you too,” he murmurs, reaching to switch the bedside lamp off, then curling his arm around her.

He doesn’t think he’s going to sleep a wink.

~💐~

Mikhail does manage to finally doze off right before dawn.

Vera is a morning person, and today is no different. She rises and showers and dresses and he finally flings the covers back, digging at his blurry eyes with the heel of one hand. They have room service deliver breakfast and then he takes his turn in the bathroom, showering and dressing before heading towards the elevator, making good on his promise to his wife that he’d attempt to patch things up with his best friend.

What he really should do, of course, is simply pretend to go on that errand, then return to the suite and declare the matter resolved. He should not be seeking the man out. He should definitely not be alone with him, especially after what had happened the previous evening.

But Mikhail still finds himself striding down the hallway leading to Zhenya’s door, stopped short when he encounters a housekeeping cart parked just outside the room. He steps around it, knocking on the open door to announce his arrival.

Instead of his tall friend appearing, a much shorter woman pokes her head out of the bathroom, a spray bottle in hand. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Oh, I um…my friend is staying in this room.”

“No sir, it’s empty now.”

“He left?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She disappears again and he turns away. So Zhenya had checked out early, then. Well, he guesses that made sense. No point in sticking around, right?

Disappointment weighs his shoulders down. He walks back to the elevators slowly, his eyes staring unseeing at the rows of doors, the carpet printed with a geometric pattern. He should call him when he gets back to the suite. Make sure he got home okay.

He passes by a room with the television playing loudly. It sounds like a news broadcast. Another hotel guest passes by him when he reaches his destination. He absently nods a greeting, entering the elevator and then staring blankly at the buttons.

He left without saying goodbye. Without saying anything.

You told him you couldn’t be what he wanted. What did you expect? Did you really think you would have your cake and eat it too? Isn’t it bad enough you thought about him the entire time you fucked your brand new wife last night?

“Damn it.” He slaps at the button for the lobby. He can’t go back to the room like this. He needs some time. Some space. A quiet place to gather his thoughts in.

The return journey to the house on the hill is a slow one.

Carrying two incapacitated humans isn’t difficult for the pale visitor, but trying to accommodate the pace of the wounded FEMA agent ambling behind him is. What should only be an hour trek at best has already taken nearly double that length.

The visitor halts for what feels like the hundredth time, his dark eyes flicking to the horizon glimpsed across a flat stretch of empty fields to confirm what he already knows: their surroundings have been become increasingly devoid of other living creatures, their enemies retreating, dispersing beneath the looming terror that another, superior one promises in the form of the impending arrival of the sun. The landscape is already better illuminated, the fallow ground they’re currently traversing touched with a soft gray light. A risk even still to be exposed like this, but the flatter terrain is easier for the injured human to walk across, and speed is essential. Every second counts.

“It’s nearly dawn,” he observes, frowning at the man’s strained expression.

“I know.” His ally grimaces. “Used to need…the alarm on my watch. Now my body…knows. Can feel my heart racing…right on schedule. How much farther is it?”

The intruder considers the remaining distance, his face lifting, nostrils flaring slightly as he searches for any scents that harbor a warning, but there are none. “Thirty minutes should bring us there, if we keep a steady pace. We must keep a steady pace after this,” he warns.

“Yeah, yeah. I understand…the underlying threat there. I can make it.” His companion shoves at the wet strands of hair plastered to his cheeks. His skin color now nearly rivals the visitor’s in terms of a ghastly white appearance, the bandage wrapped around his chest becoming saturated in blood. Two more causes for concern.

“I wouldn’t leave you behind. I’ll drag you if I have to.” The idea of watching this person he’s only known for a few hours perish suddenly feels unbearable. A true link to his past. An advocate for a cure for the virus. He’s simply too important.

The man’s breathing begins to return to normal, his speech clearer. “Nah. I’d slow you down too much. I know you want to get back to your girlfriend,” he teases with a wink, trying to make light of the situation.

The visitor’s voice softens with fondness. “Yes, I want to see her. Make sure she’s safe.”

“You said she’s armed, right? Locked up inside the house? She’ll be alright.”

“She’s never fired the gun,” he admits quietly. “I know there will come a time when that changes. I wish it wouldn’t have to.”

“Well, maybe we can do something about that so she never has to.” The hazmat suited man straightens, wincing as he readjusts the strap of the rifle on his shoulder. “Speaking of murder, I’d just about kill for some water right now,” he mutters.

”There is a water pump nearby,” the tall visitor remarks. “I’ve used it before. The supply was good. Uncontaminated. We can stop there briefly if we hurry.”

The news seems to reinvigorate the man from FEMA and they make good time to their new destination. The former salesman works the handle of the pump while the other man holds his hands cupped beneath the spout. He brings the water to his mouth repeatedly, finally declaring himself sated after drinking several handfuls. His gaze lingers on the dark blood still staining the visitor’s chin and chest and hands, leftover remnants from his battle with the mutated visitor. “You might want to get cleaned up before you see your girl.”

The pale visitor scowls, eager to complete the journey, but acquiesces and gently sets the unconscious pair of humans down, then uses the water to scrub at his hands and face, washing the worst of the grime away before he rinses his mouth out, then turns to the FEMA agent. “Better?”

“A little more here.” He touches the corner of his own mouth to demonstrate and the intruder continues to wash until he’s deemed presentable. “How’s the shoulder feeling?”

“It’s fine.” He’s more concerned about how he’s ruined the shirt you’ve just tailored for him than the bullet hole his new friend had unwittingly fired into him, in truth.

“So, a question that I’ll probably regret asking. Since you like dining on…ahem…certain cuisine now, does that mean my blood smells appetizing? Especially since it’s leaking out of me rather more than I’d care for?”

“I don’t need to feed right now,” he says tightly. “And I wouldn’t consume you in any case.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’d probably be too gamey.” He grins at the startled expression on the onyx haired figure’s features.

”You have a very dark sense of humor.”

”These are dark times, friend.”

The pale visitor is quiet for a moment, then voices his thoughts. “I’ve tried eating regular food since I…changed. It tastes wrong. As if I can detect all the individual components. The artificial flavors are too strong. Tea is about the only thing I can tolerate. Then I’m forced to find other means of sustenance.”

“Tea, huh? Wonder why.” He rakes a hand through his drenched tresses. “Alright. That’s enough of a breather. Let’s get going.”

Relief floods the pale visitor when the house on the hill finally comes into sight a short while later. The porch light seems weaker now that it has competition creeping up on the horizon. He swiftly climbs the steps and kicks softly at the door to knock and announce their arrival, resisting the urge to look back and see the sun he knows is popping into view.

“Vysokiy!” You anxiously greet him, wrenching open the door. He can tell you’ve been crying recently, your lashes still dewy and your eyelids red and swollen. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he brushes your concern aside. “I’ve got the girl. The other one I’m carrying is a human as well. They’ve been sedated, but they’re unharmed.”

A flurry of emotions passes over your features. “And who’s this?” Your eyes narrow as you peer around him to view the injured man who’s slightly hunched over, clutching the railing and panting. He’d quickened the pace for the last few minutes out of necessity, forcing the man to expend whatever energy he had left in his depleted stores. “FEMA?” You hiss, shooting him another pointed glance.

“Yes. But he’s on our side. It’s…a long story,” he replies vaguely. “We have a lot to discuss.” He passes the girl to you and you cradle her in your arms, watching as the visitor assists the FEMA agent up the final step and into the house, then immediately closes and locks the door behind them. Close. That bright light in the distance was entirely too close for his liking. His hand trembles on the doorknob until he uses it to steady his remaining burden again.

“Let’s get these two settled and then we can see about other things. Have a seat here for now,” he instructs the other man who complies, dropping heavily into the chair beside the front door, unslinging his firearm and resting it against the coat rack nearby.

The visitor enters the kitchen and drags the chairs away from the table with his free hand. You crouch down and place your neighbor’s daughter onto her makeshift bed. She murmurs and stirs but doesn’t wake, curling up beneath the crocheted blanket you drape over her.

The intruder spares a moment to greet Koshka with a few scratches around the cat’s ears, the animal keenly watching the return of one of its favorite humans from its perch on the counter, then leaping down to join the young girl on the nest of blankets. He carries the middle aged woman back out into the hallway, looking a question at you as soon as you’ve shut the door. “Where should I…?”

“The office,” you decide, leading the way. He’s never been inside this room. It’s a little cramped, with just enough room for a small sofa, a narrow coffee table, a desk and chair, and a set of bookshelves. The sofa becomes a bed for the remaining human he’s rescued as he places the diminutive woman on it.

“Her glasses are tucked into the pocket of her cardigan so they won’t get lost. She’s going to be very confused when she wakes up. You’ll have to explain what’s happened. I wish I could have saved more people,” he says regretfully, softly shutting the door behind them.

“I don’t even know what’s happened.”

“You’re right. You don’t.” He sighs, suddenly finding the prospect of relaying all that has happened during his absence exhausting. He just wants to curl up beside you in bed.

“What happened to your shoulder?”

“Hmmm? Oh.” He realizes that now that he’s no longer burdened with the humans he’d been carrying, the view of the gunshot injury is unobstructed. “The FEMA agent shot me. By mistake,” he adds quickly, seeing your features darken. “It’s nothing, really,” he says dismissively. “It will heal quickly. To be honest, I’m more concerned with his injuries.”

“I don’t know him. You come first. And this is hardly nothing,” you say firmly, frowning as you study the wound, probing gently around the borders, shifting the ruined, bloodstained fabric. “You shouldn’t be putting yourself in harm’s way.”

“You didn’t know any of the other humans you’ve sheltered. You didn’t know me, either,” he gently reprimands. “And as far as the man from FEMA is concerned, he actually risked his life to help me. That’s how he got hurt. There’s a good reason I’ve invited him here, I promise you that.”

You exhale loudly, your posture stooping. He’s never seen you this weary before. His eyes linger over the purple smudges beginning to stain the skin beneath yours.

“I’m tired. I stayed up all night, waiting for you. The sun was rising. I was worried.” Your voice sounds small. Fragile.

“I know you need rest. I’m tired, too. But there’s a few more tasks to be done yet.” He covers your fingers with his. “I’m sorry for the condition of the shirt.”

You make a sound of disbelief, shaking your head. “Don’t be absurd. I can tailor other clothes. I can’t replace you,” you reply, your grip tightening. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know you went out there because of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m glad you’re home.”

“So am I.” His head lifts, tilting slightly as he listens to the now familiar sounds of the house: the hum of the furnace as it clicks on and the rush of warmed air blowing through the vents; the pops and ticks as the foundation awakens, heating beneath the autumn sun’s gaze. It feels like a greeting, a welcoming embrace, and once again he thinks about slipping beneath the covers and cradling you close. “I missed you,” he says, the words a little coarser, the underlying emotions chafing them. He seats a hand against your waist and you twine your wrists behind his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. You taste clean. Pure. More refreshing than the water he’d sampled at the pump outside. It’s so easy to let his body melt alongside yours, blending your forms together. My home. My girlfriend. Mine. His grip tightens, clutching you possessively. Your shoulder clips the edge of the window blinds as he pushes you back against the wall, his mouth latching onto your throat.

“Oh, I um…am I interrupting?”

The pale visitor reluctantly breaks the kiss, turning and scowling at the FEMA agent standing nearby. “I told you to wait by the door.”

“Yeah, I just…I kind of need to get this changed.” He gestures towards the bloodied makeshift bandages wrapped around his torso.

“What happened?” You frown, your hands uncoiling from the pale visitor’s body, your attention now drawn to the injured man’s chest.

“Visitor got me good with his claws. Oh, hang on, I’m a little lightheaded,” he murmurs, resting a hand against the wall.

“You need to sit down. Or lie down. Living room,” you announce firmly. “Vysokiy, can you help him? I need to go grab the first aid kit.”

You vanish down the hallway without waiting for a response and the pale visitor swiftly lends an arm to help the man walk into the room that he’d once slumbered in when he’d first arrived. The FEMA agent collapses heavily on the sofa, earning a creaking protest from the springs. He exhales loudly. “Your girl…she’s pretty. Crazy about you, too. You’d have to be blind not to notice. Lucky dog.”

“Don’t try to talk. Save your strength.”

“I have to talk. Have to tell her she might be the answer to all our prayers if she really is immune.”

“I want to be the one to tell her,” the visitor interjects quickly.

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“Because I’m the one that put her at risk in the first place.”

“Ah. Feeling guilty?”

“Yes. So let me tell her,” he repeats, his gaze stern as he regards the seated man.

“When are you springing the news?”

“As soon as she’s done patching you up.”

“Okay. We’ll do it your way.” He nods, leaning back against the cushions. “This couch is not that comfortable, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

“I know. I spent a couple of miserable nights trying to sleep on it.” He casts another anxious glance towards the open doorway, wondering what’s delaying you.

“Then you got upgraded to the bedroom, huh?” He smirks and the intruder glowers at him.

“Ok, I hope I have what I need,” you announce as you return, setting a pile of supplies down on the table beside the couch. “And I brought a change of clothes for when we’re finished. But first thing’s first. Let’s get this off of you and see what we’re dealing with.”

The man struggles out of the shredded remains of the upper portion of his protective gear and his shirt with some assistance. You slice through the makeshift bandages with your sewing shears, working quickly along the uninjured side of his chest to sever the series of knots. He groans when you finally peel away the bloodied fabric, your gasp loud when the cuts are revealed.

You shoot a hurried glance at the visitor. “Some of these are deep…”

“Do the best you can,” he says quietly.

“I’m not a doctor,” you protest, but you begin soaking a washcloth in warm water and start to cleanse around the scratches so you can better see what flesh is torn and what’s still intact.

“Don’t think that trek helped me any,” the man grunts, offering a rueful grin, then winces. “Your beau made us take the scenic route.”

“I was trying to keep us out of sight so things like this wouldn’t happen again,” the pale visitor growls as he gestures towards the gouges in the FEMA agent’s flesh, the worry in his tone slightly outweighing his frustration.

“I’ll do my best,” you say. “But I could use more washcloths. Maybe a couple of the towels that are folded on the dryer. And another bowl of hot water. And something to drink and some acetaminophen. It’s in the medicine cabinet. You feel like you have a fever,” you remark, your attention shifting from the visitor already in pursuit of the requested items back to the wounded man.

“So. You and him. That’s something, huh?”

“He told you not to talk,” you murmur, rinsing the cloth and scrubbing at another patch of gore covered skin.

“He’s not my boss.”

You smirk slightly. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“He doesn’t boss you though, does he?”

You shake your head. “He knows better.” You begin rummaging through the first aid kit, pulling out items that you think you’ll need. “What’s your name?”

The man barks a laugh that quickly turns into a raspy sound. “Ouch. That hurts. You know, your boyfriend never thought to ask. It’s Ilya. You call him Vysokiy? That’s appropriate.”

You nod, your cheeks flushing slightly. “Just until he remembers.”

“My cousin worked with him. It’s the damndest thing, but I just can’t recall what his name was.”

Your head lifts, your eyes widening with surprise. “Oh? Your cousin knew him?”

The visitor enters the room then, interrupting the conversation as he sets down the requested items anywhere he can find a ready surface.

“Your girl…she’s got spunk. I like her. Still not fond of you, though,” he grumbles.

“Idiot,” the intruder mutters, offering you an exasperated expression. “See what I had to put up with?”

“Bah. He enjoys my company.”

“Both of you hush. Take these,” you instruct, handing two tablets and a cup of water to Ilya. He swallows them down and you nod approvingly. “Good. Let’s get you lying down. I’m going to attempt to bandage these cuts. I have antibiotic ointment here. I hope that’s enough.” You kneel down to unlace his boots and pull them off, tossing them into the corner.

The wounded man sighs once he’s stretched out along the length of the couch, letting his eyes slide closed. The visitor silently observes as you continue cleaning the site. The pile of clean cloths and towels dwindles, the bowls of water now tepid and a sickly grayish-pink color.

“You got medical training?” Ilya’s eyes are still closed, one forearm draped over his brow.

“It’s a little late to be asking me that.”

Another chuckle and wince. One eye pops open to regard the visitor hovering nearby. “Funny and pretty. You really hit the lottery.”

“You really can’t shut up, can you?” The intruder folds his arms across his chest.

“I had a basic first aid class in high school. Now try to hold still.” You squeeze some of the ointment onto a piece of gauze and begin spreading it over the lacerations. “Some of these could probably use stitches, but I don’t dare attempt that with a regular sewing needle and thread.”

“The docs can do that back at the field hospital. This will do for now.”

You finish taping dressings over the wounds, then allow the intruder to help prop him upright so you can wind a gauze wrap around his chest.

“Okay. That’s the best I can do with what I have available.” You sit back on your heels, watching as the man gingerly settles back down.

“You did well,” the visitor reassures you, resting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing lightly.

“I agree. Thank you,” Ilya murmurs. “I think I’m gonna take a nap now, if that’s okay with you. Getting changed just sounds like it’ll take too much effort at the moment.”

“Yes, of course. You should rest.”

The intruder helps gather the used supplies and follows you out of the living room and into the bathroom, where you empty the bowls of filthy water down the drain in the bathtub and toss the soiled linens into the washing machine. He senses you’re upset, noting the brisk movements used to complete each action, your lips pressed in a thin line.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Vysokiy, he’s white as a sheet. He’s lost a lot of blood. And those scratches are definitely infected. Hell, he could be even be heading towards sepsis as we speak. He doesn’t belong here,” you conclude, slamming the lid of the appliance down with more force than necessary.

“I agree. He’ll need to get to a FEMA field hospital after he’s rested a bit. He’s in no condition to travel right now in any case.” He watches you scrub your hands at the sink, then lean against the rim of the basin. Your eyes meet his in the mirror. “It’s okay, doragaya. You did well. I think you might have missed your true calling.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoff, somewhat mollified. “You’re sure the girl’s not hurt? They didn’t do anything to her?”

“No. And the same for the woman.”

You turn to face him. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know. I picked her simply because I knew she was human and wouldn’t be difficult to carry. I know I don’t need to tell you how difficult it is to make those kinds of decisions. You have to do it every night. And still you take a chance and let people inside. You let me in,” he says. “And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for that.” He cups your cheek and you lean against his hand.

“Did you tell Ilya that I was your girlfriend?”

”Ah, no, he came up with that on his own. Does it bother you?” He looks almost shy as he asks.

You shake your head quickly, smiling. “No. I like it.”

”Me too.”

You clutch his hand and turn your face to kiss his palm, then release it. “Okay. Have a seat. I have to do something about that shoulder.”

He complies, sitting on the closed toilet lid, then unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off.

“I don’t even know how to remove this,” you grumble, studying the embedded bullet. “Tweezers? Tongs? Pliers? God, this is—”

Wordlessly the visitor digs at the edges, plucking the foreign object free from his flesh as easily as you might pull a weed from the yard, then tossing it into the wastebin.

You curse and immediately tear open another package of gauze, pressing it hurriedly to the wound.

“Vysokiy, you can’t just…”

“Why not? It needed to come out. It will heal quickly, I assure you.”

You cautiously lift the edge of the dressing to assess the wound. “It’s…not even bleeding,” you murmur, surprised.

“As I said, of no real concern.”

You clean and bandage the area, then lean back to survey your handiwork. “I think I’m finished. Just don’t move it around too much.”

“Thank you.” He reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re amazing.”

You finish discarding the paper wrappers the dressings had been secured inside. “That’s the last of those. I don’t know what I’m supposed to use the next time your friend needs them changed. I’m not prepared for this.” Your gaze meets his. “Why is he here, Vysokiy?”

Mikhail stands in a public restroom of the hotel, his fingers curled around the rim of the sink and his head bowed over the porcelain basin. He stares, seemingly transfixed by the slow drip of water splashing over the chrome fixture lining the drain, a sign that he hasn’t turned the faucet handle quite enough.

His best friend, the man he’s known since they were both in primary school, had just kissed him.

He’d been too stunned to do much more than watch as the other man had exited the conference room, leaving him to try to piece together his emotions and make sense of what had just happened, struggling through his inebriation. A joke? Surely. But there had been nothing teasing or amused in the photographer’s expression, and it’s not his brand of humor in any case. Yevgeny has always been thoughtful, slow to anger or laugh in equal parts, solemn until coaxed in just the right way, finally revealing a cross scowl or that charming grin that’s like the sun peeking from behind the clouds. He’s kind and loyal and decent. He trusts him with his life, with every moment within it. To do something so wild, on the most important day of it so far…it’s so out of character, so out of left field, that the groom still cannot believe it’s happened. He must be so drunk his messed up, intoxicated brain concocted the whole event during a bizarre dream he’d slipped into, perhaps while passing out from the alcohol for a bit. They’ll laugh about it later. He’ll return to the banquet hall and find the tall man waiting for him, scolding him for his carelessness, for leaving him and his bride behind to worry and wonder about his fate, then they’ll share another round and maybe he’ll convince his best man to cut a rug with one of the single bridesmaids while he enjoys another dance with his wife.

“Vera,” he groans aloud, a fresh wave of guilt washing over him. He needs to hurry up and get back to her. He turns the handle of the faucet so that the cold water increases from its slow trickle to a steady stream, then cups his hands beneath it and bends over, lowering his face within easier reach to splash the cool liquid over his features.

“Alright there, mate? Too much of the bubbly?”

Another hotel guest’s voice disturbs his thoughts and his head lifts to regard the stranger, water droplets still spilling down until he snatches some paper towels from the dispenser and hastily scrubs at his features.

“Yeah, I guess I overdid it. I’ll be fine.” He grins unsteadily and the man nods sympathetically, then finishes drying his own hands and departs the bathroom.

Mikhail turns back to the row of mirrors lining the tiled wall and regards his appearance, frowning. His close cropped hair is a collection of both stiff spikes from the gel he’d applied hours earlier and flat patches, making it resemble the neglected fields of crops outside his father’s home. His cheeks and lips are flushed and his pupils are blown. The tuxedo he’s rented is rumpled and the corsage with its arrangement of baby’s breath and a single white lily has been crushed. He unpins the flowers and deposits them in the wastebin, then sets about straightening his tie and ensuring his shirt is tucked in properly. He rakes damp fingers through his hair and forces his breathing to slow, silently reprimanding his heart for beating so fiercely. There. He looks much better. No need to be so nervous. He’s done nothing wrong except get a little too tipsy and fall asleep for a few moments.

Is that the story you’re going with? Do you really think if you keep insisting upon it, the fantasy will become reality, blurring the memory of Zhenya’s lips touching yours, his tongue inside your mouth? That strange little moment when you’d responded in kind, licking your way inside his, actually enjoying it?

“No, fuck!” He curses aloud. He isn’t even certain if he’s alone at this point, but he doesn’t care if any of the stalls behind him are occupied and his outburst is witnessed. He can’t keep tormenting himself with this. He’s just going to confront the other man, sort this out, and then move on. Maybe by tomorrow morning it really will just feel like a dream.

Mikhail thrusts the swinging door open with more force than necessary, then returns to the banquet hall. The room seems a little less congested than before, the guests beginning to disperse. Good. The less people he has to interact with, the better. The majority of the wedding party is comprised of Vera’s side of the family. She’s got quite the extended one, and a large amount of friends as well. He’d wanted a smaller, more intimate service, but he’d readily surrendered to her wishes. After all, this would be the only time she’d ever get to experience this.

Unless she decides a divorce is in order when she finds out you were making out with the best man.

No. No, it wasn’t like that.

He finds the blonde woman at the center of a cluster of her bridesmaids, embracing each before they murmur warm farewells and repeat the process with her husband, the hugs he returns much stiffer and the parting words brief. He exhales a loud sigh of relief when the crowd finally thins and fades.

“Holding up okay? I know how much you hate big gatherings like this.” Vera presses a kiss against his shoulder, her breath warm through the fabric. Her honey colored hair has begun to come loose from the bun she’d had professionally styled, the curls falling softly around her face. She looks beautiful, radiant. She was made for this.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, clearing his throat when the words don’t flow quite smoothly enough on the first attempt. “I just needed to step out for some fresh air.”

“It’ll be over soon.” She gives his arm a reassuring squeeze, her polished nails digging into the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“Have you seen Zhenya?” His eyes scan the room, but he doesn’t spy the tall man anywhere.

“I think he went up to the room already. I saw him grab his jacket and leave a few minutes ago. He looked a little upset, but I didn’t want to pry.”

So, no confrontation to be had here. Better that it happens in private, away from the eyes and ears of the remaining guests. “Verochka, would you mind terribly if I said goodnight to your parents and left the rest to you? I don’t think the champagne agreed with him. I want to check and make sure he made it to his room okay. I’ll meet you back at the suite.”

“Of course. You’re a good friend.”

“You’re the best wife,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek and brushing his lips across hers.

~💐~

Mikhail rides the hotel elevator to the third floor a short time later, tugging nervously at his shirt cuffs as he waits to arrive at his destination. There are fingerprints smudging the polished surface of the carriage walls and some debris lines the flooring. Housekeeping will be busy in the morning, he thinks, focusing on every detail around him because it’s easier than facing the ones within, the details of that kiss shared in a dark room.

No, that didn’t happen.

Any attempts to rehearse what might be said ultimately fail. No introduction sounds appropriate; no approach certain. He has no idea what he’s going to say. He’s going to wait and see how he feels when they’re standing face to face.

The elevator chimes and the doors slide apart. He steps forward, scanning the signs on the wall indicating the direction the room numbers lie in. He takes a right and passes through a short hallway, then makes a left hand turn and enters a longer one.

He’s wishing now he had stalled a little longer, sneaking a cigarette outdoors even though they’re banned from the immediate premises. His hands are shaking and his heart is pounding fiercely. The closer he gets to Yevgeny’s room, the more anxious he becomes. By the time he’s standing in front of his door, he’s practically wheezing.

Calm down. It’s just Zhenya.

Zhenya, the boy he’d first met on the road near his house, befriending every stray dog in town. The one who stood alone at the edge of the playground at recess, tall and pale and silent, until he’d gone over to him and made some lame comment about homework as an icebreaker and then had invited him to play hide and seek, a game that his friend had always struggled with, unable to use so many of the hiding places better suited to kids with a more diminutive stature. He’d always borne the losses with good grace, though; always indulged in every request to play even though he knew he was at a disadvantage.

The newlywed thinks about their first winter together, being pushed down a massive hill of snow on his father’s old sled, then visiting the quiet boy’s grandmother for a hot meal when they’d both grown tired of the cold and the wet, the snow caking mittens and hats and scarves.

In later years, he recalls sneaking a cigarette out of the pack lying beside the phone in the hallway, knowing his father would eventually discover its absence and bestow harsh judgment for the transgression but still doing so anyway, then rejoining his friend waiting just outside the front door, his dark eyes fringed with long lashes tight at the corners with worry. But Yevgeny had always gone along with whatever Mikhail had wanted, ever the faithful companion, unfalteringly loyal and trustworthy. He’d always been a good friend. His very best friend. But now…

327. This is it. Mikhail knocks on the door.

A pause, and then he hears the sound of the deadbolt being unlocked, the chain loosening and falling against the heavy fire-safe door. Then it opens and he finds himself facing Yevgeny, still clad in his wedding guest attire minus the blazer.

“Zhenya, I came to check on you. Make sure you’re alright.” Good. A sensible beginning. His pulse races a little faster as he wait for the other man to reply.

“I’m fine,” he finally says, the words curt and brisk. “No need for concern. Goodnight.”

He shakes his head. This isn’t going well. “No, wait a minute. We need to talk about what happened earlier.” The words finally leave his lips in a rush. It had happened. It was real. The confirmation of it is written all over his best man’s face. And he’d known. The pretense of denial was flimsy at best, shredded the moment he’d decided to confront his friend.

“No, we don’t. Go spend the evening with your bride.” He begins to shut the door but Mikhail swiftly blocks the gap with his foot, preventing it from closing. He knows his dress shoe will be scuffed to hell after this, but he doesn’t really care.

“Yes, we do.” He struggles to push the door open wider, momentarily forgetting that although Yevgeny rarely uses his height and weight to his advantage, he’s still capable of doing so. “Zhenya, stop it,” he says through gritted teeth.

And just like that, the taller man complies, relaxing his grip on the barrier, letting it swing back open. Mikhail stumbles into the room, managing to remain upright despite the unexpected momentum carrying him past the suddenly unobstructed doorway, jerking to an abrupt halt right in front of his friend. There’s a heat radiating from Yevgeny that’s reminiscent of standing beside a fireplace. He finds himself taking a step back just as the door clicks shut. Despite his retreat, his voice remains stern, persistent and unyielding. “I want to know what’s gotten into you. What the hell was that earlier? Why did you—?”

“—Was it not clear?” There’s sharp steel edging his words, a foreign sound Mikhail doesn’t recognize that brings him up short. Yevgeny is always warm, soft, kind. The man before him seems like a stranger wearing his features, the mild mannered friend typically so agreeable and placid absent. “Here, you can read it for yourself, then.” He watches as he rummages inside the pocket tucked into the inner lining of his vest, then thrusts a pair of folded pages at him.

Mikhail frowns, snatching the letter. He can instantly feel the texture pressed into the paper, the force used to etch the words, denting the stationary bearing the hotel’s logo. His eyes briefly scan the opening paragraph, and then the hand clutching the papers drops sharply to his side, as if weighted by something much heavier. He’s never been good with mushy stuff; he can count the number of times he’s cried in front of someone on one hand. To his recollection the majority of those times had been in the company of the man standing before him. During his courtship of Vera, it had taken him a great deal of time to finally pledge words of affection. He’s just not comfortable admitting those kinds of feelings; it makes him feel too vulnerable, too helpless. To see them now scrawled line after line, dedicated to none other than himself…“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks quietly, not quite able to meet the other’s gaze.

“Would it have made any difference? Would it have changed anything? No. I know this.” His voice sounds calmer now. Closer to normal.

“You’re my best friend.” There’s something slightly pleading in his speech, an underlying ache that queries if this is, in fact, still valid.

“Yes. And now you’re married. So there’s really nothing left to discuss, is there?” The bitterness creeping back in is unmistakable.

“You should have told me,” he insists, even though he’s not certain receiving a verbal version would have been any less surprising.

“Why? I’ve rehearsed the rejection enough times in my own mind, so really, there’s no need to revisit it in reality.” He reaches out and attempts to smooth the married man’s lapels. Mikhail flinches, his eyes flicking up to notice the hurtful wince creasing the pale man’s features before his hands drop quickly back to his sides. “Go to her, then. There’s nothing left to be said between us.”

“Zhenya…”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t…what?”

“Don’t make this even harder than it already is. Just go.” Yevgeny’s hands lift again, nudging upwards as they straighten the knot of the groom’s tie. “You should shave, when you get back to the room. Your face is too rough for that fine porcelain skin of hers.” He tries and fails to smile, lightly brushing the backs of his fingers across his cheek.

Mikhail drops the pages of the letter and they flutter down and land on the carpet. “Stop touching me like that,” he snaps, batting the dark haired man’s fingers away. He doesn’t like it; doesn’t like how tender it feels, how raw the emotions are on his friend’s face. He’s looking at him like he’s just hung the stars in the sky, and he’s done nothing to deserve that kind of worship. He’s suddenly furious at himself for being so blind. He feels ashamed. “You’ve ruined everything, you know that? Now I’m going to question every moment we’ve ever spent together, wondering what I did to encourage this. How long you’ve been lying to me. Pretending. You’ve tainted every memory. I can never trust you again.” The harsh words spill out one after the other, his companion’s features becoming more and more anguished as he continues. It hurts to utter them; to see what effect they’re having, and it makes him even angrier. He grabs a fistful of the other man’s shirt and roughly shoves him backwards. “You’re so eager to put hands on me? Come on then, let’s fight.”

“No.” The refusal is tight, pained.

“Fight back, damn it.” He advances, swinging a fist that connects with the bottom of Yevgeny’s jaw. His bottom lip splits open and a trickle of blood leaks down his chin.

The sight makes him pause for a moment, startled. Those dark eyes of his look even more wounded now. The expression is unbearable. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to take my anger away after you’ve taken everything else.” He lunges again, his fingers curled into another fist. This time Yevgeny is ready, easily deflecting the punch and gripping Mikhail’s upper arms to restrain him.

“You can pummel me all you want, but it’s not going to change my feelings,” he says, the quiet resignation in his tone making his friend suddenly go limp, surrendering. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to say something. Do something.”

“Zhenya.” The name rasps from Mikhail’s lips. “How didn’t I see it?” He leans against the hands still bracing his upper extremities, allowing him to help hold him upright. It’s always been like this; the other man has always been there when he’s needed him. He’s come to rely on him so heavily as the years wear on, pulling him out the darkest times, there to comfort him when he’d lost his mother and then later his father, still a great loss even as estranged as they’d become. He’s always been his rock. And what has he given him in return? Companionship, he supposes. A relief from the isolation. He’s never really stopped to think about it. He certainly had never expected it to evolve into something like this, this awkward one-sided romance.

Yevgeny continues to remain silent while he ruminates. The groom finally straightens, forcing himself to stand on his own unaided. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He means the cut still weeping from the other man’s lip; he means much more than that.

“I know.”

Green eyes appraise the injury. “Come into the bathroom with me. Let’s get that cleaned up.”

“I can manage.” He reaches up to dab at his chin, then studies the crimson staining his fingertips with a curiously detached expression.

“Now, Zhenya,” he commands gently.

Yevgeny nods and shrugs, leading him into the bathroom. The hotel-issued towels and toiletries are still arranged on the counter, unused. Mikhail gestures for his friend to sit on the toilet lid and turns the handle for the hot water, letting it run a moment before dousing the corner of a washcloth. He begins gently scrubbing at the blood staining the other man’s fair skin, eliciting a sharp inhale of discomfort when he rubs too close to the actual laceration.

“Sorry,” he apologizes again. “You should get room service to bring you some ice. It’s a bit swollen.”

“‘S’alright.”

“Stubborn,” Mikhail murmurs, setting the stained cloth into the sink to allow the water to rinse it.

“So what now?”

“I don’t know.” The burst of adrenaline he’d experienced moments ago has dissipated, leaving him feeling weak and tired.

“Are we still friends?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he chides gently. “Yes,” he next answers. “But it’s going to be different, now that I know…I don’t even know how to feel right now. How you’re going to feel. Is it fair to…?” His voice trails off.

“You wish I’d never told you.”

It bears the trappings of a statement more than a question but he answers anyway. “Yes. No. Gods, I don’t know, Zhenya.” He shuts the faucet off, then turns back to the injured man. “You’ve always been there for me. You were the one constant, the one person I could always rely on.”

“Until Vera came along.” He utters this without expression, but there’s no masking the jealousy buried within that sentence.

“That’s different. You know it is.”

Long lashes drop and lift. “I can still be that person.”

“Can you? Because I’m trying to imagine any future scenario where we’re alone together, knowing you want something I can’t give you.”

“I’ll keep my hands to myself. And my lips,” he adds.

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” Yevgeny pauses. “We don’t have to sort this out tonight, you know. It’s getting late. You should go.”

“No. I want this dealt with now. Otherwise I’m just going to be lying awake all night, wondering what the hell happened. Why my best friend kissed me and I felt—” He cuts the train of thought off abruptly, glancing at his companion to see if he’s noticed.

“You felt what?”

Oh, he’d noticed alright. “Forget it. You’re right. I should go.” Should’ve kept my mouth shut. Should’ve just left when I had the chance. He told me to leave and I refused to. Why did I stay?

“Misha.” The photographer’s fingers close around his hand.

“You promised you wouldn’t touch me,” he responds, making no motion to pull away. Why can’t I move? Why don’t I want to?

“Felt what?”

A little sound of anguish escapes him. His eyes are continually drawn to the scab now marring his friend’s mouth. There’s something hypnotizing about that dark red line diving the wedge of his bottom lip. He feels his head bowing and allows it to happen, his mouth gently brushing Yevgeny’s.

“What are you doing?” Mikhail’s friend whispers, even as his fingers release his hand in favor of curling around the side of his waist.

He has no answer for this. No explanation for the fluttery feeling in his chest, for the heat suddenly pooling in his groin.

“You’re teasing me.”

“No, I’m…”

“Then what? Then what, Misha?”

Mikhail slides a hand through the inky hair at the crown of Yevgeny’s head, lightly tugging his face back. He kisses him again, this time boldly licking the seam of his lips apart, a hint of the blood he’d spilled earlier still lingering, metallic against his tongue. The other man groans, drags against the wet heat of that invading muscle, heedless of the cut that’s been split open all over again.

Thoughts spark and die, ideas that this is wrong, that they shouldn’t, that he’d just pledged wedding vows a few hours earlier flaring to life and then dying, words dissolving into moans and gasps and hisses. He's burning hot, the suit he’s wearing stifling, but there’s no room to shed it. Yevgeny’s clutching him so tightly it’s like wearing a second skin.

Mikhail had thought he’d known every sound his best friend was capable of making but these ones? These raw whimpers and whines pressed along the base of his throat once he’s jerked loose the knot of his tie? These are new.

Yevgeny knows he shouldn’t keep drinking.

Yet the trays of filled champagne flutes seem to be everywhere he looks and he can’t resist snatching at another as a waiter passes by, downing the pale gold liquid in one gulp. He sets the empty stemware down on the ivory cloth covered table and drags the back of his wrist across his mouth when he’s finished, carelessly dampening the edge of his shirt sleeve. His blazer is draped over the back of a chair at the main table where he’d abandoned it after the toast and first dance for the happy married couple, his best friend Mikhail and Vera, the woman he’s chosen as his bride, lovely and sweet and delicate, blonde and svelte and everything he himself is not.

There’s a letter tucked inside the inner pocket of the cream colored satin vest he’s wearing, a collection of thoughts that are far more earnest and truthful than the generic rhetoric he’d spouted earlier, all those sentimental congratulations and well wishes and reinforcing certainty that they were always destined to be together and would hopefully enjoy a long, happy union. The best man’s real feelings are quite different, the confession scrawled in tiny, cramped, spidery cursive. It is in fact a feverish outpouring of every emotion he’s kept carefully concealed for so many years from the man he’s known since childhood. The act of creating it hadn’t been nearly as cathartic as he’d hoped, for what good is a letter if it is never sent, never read, never known?

So now those secret words lie folded above his heart (the irony is not lost on him, not one bit). He is cursed by the desire to watch Mikhail as he glides across the dance floor and mingles among the guests and the sick feeling gnawing at his gut every time he sees the new bride in her gown of lace and satin blushing and smiling and glowing, clinging to all the places he longs to touch: his shoulder, his waist, the soft skin lining the notch at the base of his neck that would be the perfect resting place for his own lips.

Yevgeny shreds a napkin as he watches the married couple, focusing solely on his best friend now, indulging in the fantasy of peeling him out of that rented tuxedo, then dipping beneath the waistband of whatever briefs he’s chosen for the momentous occasion to find the forbidden feel of heated flesh firm beneath his touch, the accompanying part of flushed lips and the flutter of lashes, the whisper of his name that’s been said every way across the years save the one he needs to hear the most: that gasping, pleading want, for more pleasure, for release, undone by his hands alone as he moans his feelings are shared, at last, at last.

The dark haired man’s cheeks grow redder, warm from drink, from arousal, from that stupid aching organ beating in his chest. I object, I object, I OBJECT, he thinks, the words he’d wanted to shout in the chapel earlier still futilely echoing in his mind. His eyes stutter over the elegant bows drawn behind each guest’s chair, the centerpieces with white lilies decorating each table. It’s all so pure and pristine and decent, nothing like his lewd thoughts, his hopeless affection that remains unknown and unfulfilled.

I’ve loved him all my life, and you’ve barely known him for two years, yet you get to have all the rest of his, and I’m left with nothing.

He’s happy, they’re happy, that’s what matters. Be happy for them.

Yevgeny can bear his conflicted thoughts no more. He rises from the chair at the edge of the room he’s been sulking in, his balance surprisingly steady. He begins walking with no real intention, only knowing the laughter and the chatter and the music are too loud, too joyous, too much.

The framed photograph of the newlyweds outside the hotel’s banquet hall is one he himself had taken, one of many whose creation he’d been forced to endure, making sure everything had been painstakingly perfect, from the lighting to the posture to the slight angle of Mikhail’s jaw, manually adjusting with a gentle nudge of fingers that were none too steady, the faint smile he’d been rewarded with spilling heat right down his chest and abdomen to pool between his thighs.

The photographer continues down the hallway, where there are no crowds, no music, no laughter, no temptation in the form of a five foot ten man he’d once seen take a nasty header off his new bicycle the first day he’d gotten it. He’d bandaged the abrasion on his best friend’s knee and promised to keep the accident a secret from his parents so he wouldn’t be banned from using it again. They’d caught frogs in the swamp afterwards, then made terrible S’mores with stale graham crackers and even staler marshmallows and leftover chocolate from Easter, the kind that never tastes quite right.

Yevgeny’s thoughts wander, mirroring his aimless tred, and he loses track of his surroundings, eventually finding himself outside a vacant room lined with tables and chairs visible through the narrow pane of glass set in the door. A conference room of some sort. The interior is dark and quiet. Inviting. Of course, he could just go up to the room he’s rented. But this is closer. He could just—

“Zhenya?”

He turns to see the groom resting a shoulder against the wall, a lopsided grin on his features. Drunk. Intoxicated by the evening’s events. And why shouldn’t he be?

“Misha,” he greets, not recognizing his own voice. It’s dry, rusty, the croak of a person who’s vocal chords have been abused by a lifetime of smoking, when in fact his friend is the one with the addiction and he himself has never tried more than the first one Mikhail had nabbed from a pack of his father’s. Yevgeny had immediately declared the experience awful, the taste sour and the smoke choking, but the other youth had seemed determined to finish it, stubbornly refusing to be defeated by something restricted to older folk.

Now if the man were to offer him one, he’d suck the chemical laden smoke directly from his lips and be grateful for the experience.

“What are you doing here? The lavatories are in the other direction.” Mikhail jerks a thumb backward and the movement puts him off balance, causing him to stagger and clutch the wall, unaware of how charming the sheepish look he offers is.

“I wasn’t…” Yevgeny lets the protest die. What does it matter? Any excuse is as good as another.

“I’ve been looking for you all night. You just disappeared on me.” He steps closer. His cheeks are quite flushed, his lips nearly coral. Yevgeny knows every lash fanning out from those pretty green eyes of his, from the stubbornly curled cluster at the end of his right to the curiously blonde tinged tips of another group on his left. He’s mapped the constellation of freckles dotting skin tanned and weathered from outdoor work and the crescent shaped scar on the top of his left hand where he’d cut himself on a broken beer bottle countless times. He’s photographed him so often during the course of their lifetime he thinks he could draw him from memory and the image would be indistinguishable from the reality.

“You were looking for me?” The words are hopeful and warm, comforting like a bowl of the soup his grandmother used to make for them on winter days when the snow drifts piled too high, making the trek to school impossible (but just the right amount to build snow forts and engage in snowball fights).

“‘Course. You know how bad I am at social gatherings. The small talk and all that. My face hurts from smiling at so many people. I don’t even know who some of them are.” Mikhail’s arm slings around his shoulders, lending and drawing support both. The pair wobble before Yevgeny’s hand manages to grasp the brass handle of the door beside them, pushing it open. His companion gives a confused chuckle to find himself now in near darkness.

“We seem to be going the wrong way.” He giggles again, his fingers scrabbling for more support, now clutching at the bowtie around Yevgeny’s throat, tugging the knot loose. “Gods, I’m dizzy.”

“Drunk idiot,” his friend replies, but there is more affection than reprimand drenching those words. “Here, lean up against the wall, you heavy lummox.”

“It was that damn cake. You know I can’t resist sweets. I think I’ve gained at least five pounds tonight. Argh, I can’t see anything. Where’s the lightswitch?” His back thumps against the wall as Yevgeny props him alongside it and the man groans. “Ouch. Nevermind. Found it. It’s behind me.” There’s a rustling sound and then a row of fluorescents at the far end of the room flicker to life, the section they’re standing in still swathed in shadows. “Huh. Guess there’s more than one.” There’s a white board affixed to the opposite wall that would definitely have caught their interest when they were younger, the perfect canvas for caricatures and sketches (and in Mikhail’s case, dirty artwork and obscenities).

The corsage pinned to the groom’s chest has been crushed during the commotion, the floral scent heavy in the air between them. The taller man suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. “Misha, I have to tell you something.”

“Hmmm?” He replies distractedly, pressing the heel of one hand to his forehead. “The room looks like it’s spinning. Which one of you is the real Zhenya?”

Yevgeny hesitates, then reaches for his hand. “I’m here, old friend.”

“Thought so.” Mikhail smiles, making no move to pull his hand free.

I could still give him the letter. Tell him to read it when he’s alone and sober. How will he react to the news? Sympathy? Disgust? Anger? What if it ruins our friendship and I’m left with truly nothing?

“‘Was a nice wedding, wasn’t it? People had a good time, y’think?” At last his fingers fall free and the photographer is left holding air.

Yevgeny’s teeth clench. He can’t give him the letter now. What if he loses it? What if Vera sees it? “Yes, it was lovely.” He forces the words out. He wishes he was still feeling as buzzed as he’d been earlier. Somehow his body had sobered once he’d encountered the drunk newlywed, recognizing the situation and reverting to the familiar state of being the responsible caretaker in the relationship.

“Oof, that champagne really hit me hard. I might not make it up to the room without help. Do you reckon they’d let me use one of those luggage trolley things? You could push me—”

“—Misha, shut up and listen to me,” he interrupts harshly, a sense of urgency driving him to try to cut through the drunken haze his best friend is currently experiencing. He’s running out of time. He has to do something.

The shorter man blinks dazedly, his glassy emerald eyes struggling to focus. “Huh?”

Yevgeny decides in that moment to forgo speech and do what he’s wanted to for so long. He rests a hand along his friend’s cheek, feeling the beginnings of a beard poking through, gritty like sandpaper against his fingertips as he leans closer to kiss his mouth.

Mikhail is too surprised to react at first and he takes advantage of this, prodding his lips open with his tongue. There’s a blissful moment of return contact, so brief he isn’t certain if he’d simply imagined it, and then it abruptly ceases as the groom clumsily shoves at his chest to break them apart.

“What…what are you doing?”

“Now you know,” Yevgeny murmurs, but he doesn’t feel relieved. He feels cheated. It’s not enough. It’s only made things worse. He slams against the handle of the door and exits the conference room. Let the groom find his own way out. Let his precious bride rescue him.

He knows he isn’t thinking or behaving rationally. It would be easy to blame the large quantity of liquor he’s imbibed this evening, but he knows the truth.

///Before///

The house feels wrong when Alexei returns to it.

There is a nagging feeling plaguing him, insistent that he is forgetting something, even though he had completed the remainder of his errands after dropping Dmitry off back at his apartment. The presence of Irina’s hatchback in the driveway alerts him that his spouse has returned from her weekend outing, and he tries to mentally prepare himself for the lies and deception that are to follow.

His footsteps sound too loud on the porch, his keys jangling noisily in his jacket pocket. The crickets clustered in the grass grow silent. His eyes flick down to the newly laid boards threaded between the weathered ones. That is Dmitry and I, he thinks. So much contrast. And yet look at how well they fit together. The seams at their borders are so thin. Such a tiny gap to cross from one to the next. In a little time they’ll be indistinguishable from one another, perfectly matched.

He is so good for me. I never knew how empty I was. How hollow. Am I good for him? I don’t know. I want to be.

Now his gaze wanders to the flower boxes full of nutrient rich, damp soil and dotted with seeds and sprouts. Soon they will be filled by the plants his new lover had chosen. They’ll flourish like this thing building inside him, this ache that he suspects is the real reason behind the sensation that he’s left something unfinished. He is the one who’s unfinished. Incomplete. It’s Dmitry he’s missing, the architect of his own blueprint.

There is a restless itch tucked away deep beneath his skin he cannot reach, a cache of heat beneath the draped hood framing his neck. He calls out a greeting as he fits the house key in the lock and pushes open the door, toeing off his work boots and placing them in the tray beside the entrance as he’s done hundreds of times before, and yet the motion of doing so feels strange tonight. He’s thinking of someone else’s shoes, the laces done up neatly. The smooth curve of Dmitry’s back as he’d bent to tie them. The way it had felt to be pressed against him, back to front in the bathtub and front to back before the bathroom mirror. The name he gives voice to aloud is not the one he carries elsewhere, tucked away like a bit of treasure in a curio cabinet.

My secret. Mine. And I’m his.

He can smell the younger man’s aftershave all over him, a blessing and a curse both. He’s already had the foresight to purchase some for himself, to disguise the true source of this new scent lest his wife inquire about its origin. The bottle is now tucked away in a plastic shopping bag in the left pocket of his hoodie. Expensive. A higher end department store offering, not the kind of thing he’d normally purchase at the local pharmacy. He mentally deducts from his allotted budget for his weekly bar trip, thinking the sacrifice is well worth it.

Am I doing this right? Covering my tracks well enough?

Irina’s answering voice is cheerful. She’s pleased by her visit with her sister, by the work he’s completed outdoors. He does not take sole credit for the results, informing his spouse that his new friend had assisted him as he sets down the video cassette rental on the table by the front door, a little catch-all for keys and mail and the cordless phone.

The blonde’s head pokes out of the kitchen. “He was here? A shame I missed him, I’d like to meet him. Invite him over for dinner some weekend, will you?”

Alexei nods. Yes, he’ll do that. Even though it sounds dangerous. Won’t it be obvious? Maybe not if he’s careful. If he acts casual, as if they’re in public. They’re just friends. Just very, very good friends.

Dinner is leftovers from the previous evening. He brings his fork to his mouth. Dima’s tongue had occupied that same space not so long ago, deftly curling around his. The thought makes him set the utensil back down, the tines still cradling a portion of his meal.

“Guess I filled up on too much pizza earlier,” he says apologetically.

“That reminds me, what does Dmitry like to eat? Any preferences or allergies I should know about?”

“Uh, none that I’m aware of, but I’ll ask the next time I see him. You’re a great cook so I’m sure he’ll enjoy it.” He lifts his fork again, dragging it through the dollop of mashed potatoes sitting on his plate with no real intent to consume any. Irina blushes over the compliment, looking pleased as she fusses with her napkin, and he feels pleased that he’s steering through these choppy waters so smoothly, the pair of them both carving a place for the accountant to occupy in their lives.

Alexei offers to clear the table once his wife’s finished eating and she doesn’t refuse. He scrapes the plates clean over the wastebin and washes them by hand at the sink. There’s an odd sort of comfort in the motions, circling each piece of ceramic with a saturated sponge cradling blue dish soap until the surfaces are clear. He sets them on the rack to dry, wondering if his new lover had bothered to eat supper as he absently contemplates the water droplets sliding down the glazed surfaces. Maybe Dmitry was occupying that plush couch, working on one of his puzzles or reading a book of poetry, his long fingers skimming the pages until he finds a passage he likes.

Once Alexei’s completed his chores he finds Irina in the living room, seated in her usual place, the armchair beside the couch. He settles onto the latter piece of furniture, into the dents that remember the shape of his body a little too well, the cushions more flat than fluff and the springs creaking a tired protest. The opening credits of the movie he’d just slipped into the VCR begin to flash onscreen. He’d grabbed a new release from an end cap at random, some crime drama he quickly loses the plot of. His wife recounts more details about her day during pauses in the action. He makes small non committal sounds to demonstrate that he’s listening, keeping the majority of what had transpired while she’d been gone concealed. There’s nothing suspicious there; he’s always been difficult to engage in conversation.

Except when I’m with him, and the words come so easily. Everything feels natural. Comfortable.

He cannot get comfortable on the furniture he’s occupying no matter how he positions himself. He feels like he is crawling out of his skin. It doesn’t belong to him anymore. He needs Dmitry’s hands to give him shape and form and purpose.

To lie flat puts him in view of the crucifix mounted on the wall. He finds himself praying for forgiveness for things he hasn’t even done yet, because there is only one way this can go. He is mired in the quicksand of the other man, sunk so deep there is no hope of possibly escaping. This is a feeling that is written about in books, portrayed in movies, crooned in songs on the radio. It pays no heed to markers like time or propriety or moral aptitude. He’d never believed in the validity of this sort of thing, deeming it foolish, its previous absence making him declare it nonexistent. He’s never felt this way before, and it makes him wonder why; why he’d never been this crazy about the woman seated a short distance away; why he’d never experienced that same intense feeling offered in return. He’s been so locked away, so blank and dull and mundane; safe and complacent and obedient. Existing, but not really living.

He likes the feel of his thudding pulse; he savors the danger of the memory of the final kiss before they’d parted, face framed between hands, then tucked in the space between neck and shoulder. Breathing against him. Memorizing the rhythm buried in his throat. Bookmarking the scene so he can return to this place again and again in his mind.

An image of Dmitry changing into his pajamas makes his lips twitch and he fights off a sudden urge to smile, pretending to scratch an itch as he rubs at the divot above his top lip. He fantasizes about resting his head on the pillow of the other man’s chest while he recounts his work day, those slender fingers sifting soothingly through his cropped hair. He’ll tell him about the customer’s oil tank that let go that morning and the order mix up at the delicatessen during his lunch break and how he’d seen the pay phone outside the strip mall and couldn’t resist calling the office just to say hi. He envisions waking during the night to find his hips straddled by the plush length of the younger man’s thighs, rocking against him, his cock stuttering wet with precum over the seam of his briefs. His body folding over, his mouth searching in the darkness. Pet names crooned into his ear, panted against his skin. Belonging, claimed, bodies tangled sticky and damp. Another bath. A smoke on the balcony. Coming back inside and finding himself wanting to do it all over again with the time left before dawn.

Alexei clears his throat, struggling to focus on the television screen, hoping his twitching cock isn’t too noticeable as he turns on his side. He’s been satisfied multiple times today and still his body craves more. He hasn’t felt this horny since he was a teenager.

When the married couple finally retires for the evening, Alexei makes certain his pillow is folded, the marked side of his neck hidden from sight as he burrows down into the cushion. Only after he’s certain his spouse has fallen asleep does he turn over onto his back, adjusting the pillow once more, flattening it out. He stares up into the darkness. He can’t sleep. It’s not guilt preventing him from resting; it’s excitement.

For the first time for as long as he can remember, he has something to look forward to: a break from the tedious monotony he hadn’t even known he’d needed. He realizes he doesn’t deserve this. Irina certainly doesn’t deserve the consequences that are likely to arise because of this indiscretion.

But he’s had a taste of that forbidden fruit now, and it’s not a flavor that’s easily forgotten.

///After///

The pale visitor’s eyes open.

It is still the same evening that he’d confronted Alexei outside his bedroom window. The interior of the barn he’d been dozing inside is dark, well protected from harmful rays of sunlight, but not particularly secure from other physical threats. A distinct noise has roused his shallow slumber. Not outside, but inside the building, with him.

He sits upright, the sharp points of his vertebrae poking against his washed out skin in mute protest, and brushes the hay from his pants, his head cocked to one side, listening intently. There. A soft jingle, the musical tap of thin metal. He’s not alone.

There is little he is afraid of; at least, in terms of his own mortality. He understands the sun is his enemy and that there is very little to fear from the other visitors, from the humans. So it is not caution but curiosity that drives the visitor to his feet. He walks to the edge of the loft, peering over the ledge to see what manner of living thing has dared approached a threat like himself, his new eyes easily discerning the shapes on the floor below. Tools still leaning against the wall, never to be used again. Empty stalls for horses whose fate is unknown but likely grim. An overturned feed bucket.

And there, padding along the concrete, is a dog.

The animal paces back and forth restlessly. The visitor is surprised to find one so close; any attempts he’s made previously to befriend the strays have been unsuccessful. He moves down the ladder slowly, trying not to spook the canine who suddenly goes still a short distance away, carefully watching his descent.

The shirtless figure crouches once he steps from the final rung and reaches ground level, stretching out a hand and keeping his palm flat. “It’s alright. I won’t hurt you.”

The dog snuffles and whines, its toenails clicking on the cement flooring before it finally ventures closer. Its fur is matted and filthy, clumped in tight wads over visible ribs, the dog’s spine a row of spikes mirroring the appearance of his own harsh specimens. The poor thing is clearly starving, little more than a rack of bones with a bit of breath still stirring the cage. Something inside the intruder’s chest wrenches. He can’t stand to see an innocent creature like this suffer.

“Come here,” he beckons again, trying to scoot closer, crawling on hands and knees. The dog’s ears flatten but its tail wags again. The crack between the doors that the beast must have nosed through to gain entrance allows a thin sliver of moonlight inside the barn. It illuminates the dangling tag on the animal’s collar, the source of the sound that had woken him, and that’s when he realizes he knows this animal.

“Jet?”

The tail beats more rapidly and its ears perk up.

“Jet, is that you? Come here, boy. Remember me? I know I’ve seen better days. We both have. That’s a good boy,” he encourages, sighing in relief when he finally makes contact. The Husky laps at his cheek enthusiastically and he wonders if it can taste the salt from the tears he’d shed earlier. “You hungry fella, huh? We’ll get you something to eat. What are you doing all the way out here? Where’s your owner? It’s alright, boy. I’ll take care of you.” He runs his fingers over the dog’s thin body, wincing at the feel, at the memory of how it once had appeared with its luscious black and silver and white coat. He’s surprised it even has enough strength left to move at all. It needs help desperately if it’s going to survive.

More help than he himself can offer alone.

There’s really only one place he can go, and that’s where he leads the dog now, being careful to avoid the nearby FEMA patrol more out of concern for his new companion’s safety than for his own. Best not to risk Jet getting harmed. He has no doubts the men would shoot first and ask questions later, claiming the poor creature was a threat, perhaps a carrier of whatever plague has struck mankind, perhaps too wild to be deemed safe anymore by the soldiers. In either case, the pale visitor refuses to accept such a grim outcome, giving the hazmat suited men a wide berth as he maneuvers his way through the unharvested crops, his partner equally as stealthy now that he’s removed and tucked the dog tag into his pants pocket to ensure no metallic jingle would betray their presence.

The tall visitor is surprised to see Alexei not only still awake at this late hour, but outdoors as well, seated on the stairs of the front porch, a hunting rifle balanced across his knees and a can of beer at his side. He visibly stiffens when he notices him approach, the cigarette he’d been smoking now resting unused between his fingers, the tip gathering ash.

“You came back.” There’s uncertainty in his voice. Maybe a thing resembling relief mingling with confusion and caution. Funny how fate keeps throwing the two of them into each other’s paths. At least, that is how the visitor chooses to view it. He believes he’s destined to haunt the man; to see this thing through to the bitter end, the last page written and the cover of this tragedy closed once and for all.

The intruder halts just beyond the reach of the porch light, giving a low whistle, and the starving dog emerges from the overgrown grass, then sits obediently at his feet.

“And you're not alone,” the seated man observes.

“The dog is the reason that I’m here. I need to ask for a favor.” He pushes the words out with great difficulty. He doesn’t want to beg his former lover for anything, and yet here he is, doing so.

“A favor,” Alexei repeats numbly, finally flicking the the cigarette with his thumbnail, sending ash and cinders raining down before he takes a long drag.

“He needs a bath. His coat is so matted it’s probably better to use the electric razor on it. But most of all he needs a decent meal. Several decent meals,” he amends.

“I’m not a dog groomer. And I’m already rationing supplies between the guests as it is. There are starving dogs all over the place, in case you haven’t noticed.”

The visitor clenches his perfect teeth. “I’m not asking you to rescue all of them, I’m asking you to help this one. Surely that’s not too much trouble for you.”

“Why? What’s special about it?”

“It’s Jet.”

The husky’s head lifts when it hears its name, then it settles back down onto the cradle of its front paws.

“You remember?” It’s never occurred to him that the other man might not. Perhaps the details of their first outing have already been forgotten, dismissed as unimportant. “Or are you too busy playing savior to strangers?”

“I remember.” His tone loses its cool detachment, shifting to warm reverie. The armed man reaches for the beer beside him, then takes a hearty swallow, his head tipping back to drain the remainder of the contents. He grimaces. “Not my favorite brew, but it helps with the insomnia.” He sets the gun down on the floor of the porch, grinding the cigarette out on top of the now empty can and then stands, descending the final step to reach the packed dirt, the grass trampled from too much wear of recent foot traffic. “We did a good job building this. It’s lasted well. Didn’t keep up with the flowers, though,” he says, gesturing towards the withered specimens lining the flower boxes. “Though with the sun the way it is I doubt they’d have thrived this season no matter how well they’d been watered.”

The visitor doesn’t care about the flowers. He doesn’t care about the porch, either. “Will you take him?” He asks, a note of pleading creeping into his voice. He needs him to say yes.

”You nostalgic, Dmitry? You ever think about…?” His voice trails off.

“This isn’t about us. It’s about saving an innocent life. Jet doesn’t deserve this.”

The homeowner shuffles his feet. He’s still wearing the same trusted pair of work boots. “It is about us, though.”

The visitor hates how much that single word, us, affects him. He hates how much promise it holds. How strong a link it implies. What a terrible lie that word is.

“I’ll take him. I’ll make sure he gets back to you safe and sound,” Alexei finally replies.

“He’d probably be better off staying inside with you,” he admits reluctantly.

“I think you need him more.” The man hesitates, then takes a step closer. “I think about the past all the time. Every damn day I go over it. The good. The bad. It was mostly good, wasn’t it?”

The visitor looks away. “Yes,” he whispers. It shouldn’t hurt this bad. What happened to time healing all wounds? He feels it as acutely now as he had the first time around.

“You hate me now?” There’s a thickness to the man’s voice that speaks of regret and sorrow. “Is that it?”

“No.” The word is so faint it’s barely audible. He offers it up thin and gauzy and the wind carries it away. It would be so much easier if he did loathe the man who’d dumped him; if the feeling wasn’t still so much in the opposite direction in spite of everything that’s happened. Even in death and its strange successor, his ruined heart still loves.

“What’s this plan of yours then, huh? When the house is empty and I’m alone, what are you going to do?”

“What I have to,” he says tightly, struggling to keep his emotions in check. He still intends on waiting until Alexei is alone, and then he will drag him out into the sunlight so they can burn together, finally cleansing the world of their wretched existence. It’s the only way to set things right. To wipe the slate clean.

“And what is that? What do you have to do?” Alexei’s moved steadily closer as they’ve been talking, now standing directly in front of him. The visitor can smell the sour tang of the alcohol on his breath, the smoke of the cigarette he’d just burned through. “I was going to feign being drunk, you know? Use that old standby to excuse my behavior. Maybe take a swing at you. Maybe do something else. But I knew you’d know the difference. There’s no fooling you. You’re too smart. You always were.” He gazes at him through lidded eyes, one hand reaching out to curl around the nape of the taller figure’s neck. It’s a gesture of affection and possessiveness he’s performed dozens of times.

The visitor flinches at the gentle touch, quickly grabbing his wrist and wrenching it away, then shoves him back against the porch railing. There’s no resistance. He allows himself to be manhandled, his spine connecting with the sanded strips of wood and a soft, surprised sound emerges as the breath is knocked from his lungs.

“Don’t,” the intruder warns, his chest heaving as if with exertion, the broad ribcage rapidly expanding and contracting. Too close. He shouldn’t be this close to him. Not yet. Not until he drags him to the finish line. A spot not too far from here in full view of the glorious and terrible sun.

He releases his former lover, but doesn’t move away. “Don’t you dare touch me like that. I told you I don’t want your pity. If I wasn’t good enough for you before, I’m certainly not good enough now.”

“It wasn’t that you weren’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough. Me. Don’t you get it?”

He stares at him incredulously. “When did I ever make you feel you weren’t good enough?”

“You didn’t. You were the first person to make me feel like I was worth anything in a long time. But I knew that I still wasn’t what you deserved. I couldn’t pretend anymore. I’ve let a lot of people down in my life, and I’m tired of it, Dmitry. Tired of being a failure. Tired of hating myself.”

“You’re not the only one who’s tired, Alexei.” He finally takes a step back and kicks at the dirt, his bare feet scuffing up a little dust cloud. “You shouldn’t have made the decision for me. We should have talked about it.”

“I didn’t know how. That’s why I wrote the letter.”

The raven haired head lifts sharply. “You owed me a hell of a lot more than a letter.”

Alexei sucks in a deep breath, then exhales heavily. “You’re right. I did.” He swallows. The visitor’s eyes closely follow the movement above the collar of the shirt that was once his. The color of it makes his eyes so stormy, blue-green like the sea. “I knew you were still in there, Dmitry. You’re not like the other ones. Come inside. Rest. I promise no one will bother you. Maybe this is God giving us a second chance.”

The hopeful invitation seems to mock him. “You think this is a gift from your God? I fucking died. I’ve been reborn as this…thing. I’m a murderer. I’ve eaten…” He chokes off the remainder of that sentence, shaking his head. “You’re wrong, Alexei. The man that you knew is gone. I’m a monster now.”

“Dima…”

The pale visitor suddenly lunges forward, narrowly avoiding the startled human at the last moment to rip the flower box from the porch, scattering splintered wood and soil to the ground. “Do not call me that. It’s over. We’re over. Take good care of Jet.” He whirls around, heading back towards the fields. The dog immediately attempts to follow but he redirects him back towards the house and the Husky obeys, whining in dismay at his departure.

Alexei bends to slip his fingers beneath the loose collar to hold the animal in place, his gaze equally as helpless as he watches the retreating figure.

///Before///

Alexei sinks down into the couch that does not yet know his shape, sighing in the pleasant feel of being properly supported.

Dmitry sits on the floor near his feet, his long legs stretched out beneath the glass coffee table. The television plays at a low volume in the background. It’s Friday evening, and for the first time in years, the technician has broken tradition, coming to the younger man’s apartment instead of heading to the bar.

Alexei’s gaze flicks between the evening news and the puzzle pieces that his new lover sorts, gathering all the straight edged ones together to begin building the outermost frame of the segmented picture. It depicts a charming cityscape with brick front homes and autumn leaves and busy dog walkers. On screen, there’s a scientist being interviewed, claiming that a dangerous event will soon occur regarding the sun.

The technician takes a dismissive sip of his beer. It seems like every so often one of these fanatical loons crawls out of the woodwork spreading tidings of doom and gloom. He never puts much faith in it; after all, even if the sun was about to experience some crazy massive solar flare, what the hell was he supposed to do about it?

Alexei rests a hand on the other man’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. His fingers gradually creep across to cradle the back of his neck and he toys with the ebony strands of hair curling slightly there. His skin is warm beneath the loosened collar of his work shirt. The accountant’s tie rests in a neat coil on the kitchen counter where he’d left it after getting home from the office.

“You’re good at that, hmmm? Fast.” He nods towards the puzzle.

“It’s satisfying.”

“I’m rubbish at them. I’m too impatient.”

“The joy I find is more in the challenge of assembly than the actual finished product.”

”What do you do with them once they’re completed?”

”It depends. Sometimes I frame them. Sometimes I take them apart and store them away for another time.”

”You don’t get tired of doing the same one more than once?”

The man seated on the carpet smiles softly. “Not at all. They never get put back together again quite the same way. It’s always a novel experience.”

Dmitry’s head tips back to regard his guest. Alexei’s fingers slide around to brace the front of his throat, stroking over that smooth white column. The pad of the older man’s thumb parts his plush lips and he bites the flesh gently.

Heat pools in Alexei’s groin. He sets his beer bottle down on the glass surface in front of him, trying to avoid the puzzle pieces, then rises to his feet. Dmitry joins him, folding his legs and slipping from beneath the table, accepting the hands he’s offered to help pull him upright.

A loud sound from the television startles them both, drawing their gazes to the screen. “This is a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System…” A robotic sounding voice declares. Alexei scoffs at the dialogue, curling an arm around his partner’s waist to draw him snugly against him. “They do it too often. When the time comes for them to actually use it, God forbid, no one is even going to pay any attention.”

Dmitry makes an unhappy sound of agreement.

“You know,” Alexei begins, diverting the younger man’s focus back to himself, “I wanted to bring you flowers, but I didn’t know what you like.”

“Calla Lilies are my favorite, but honestly I like all flowers.” He keeps his hands on his lover’s hips, steering him clear of the narrow space in front of the couch.

“What do Calla Lilies look like?”

“Mmm….they’re kind of shaped like the end of a trumpet. Very simple and sleek. Poisonous if ingested.”

He chuckles softly. “I’ll keep that in mind. No snacking on the floral arrangements. Can’t make that same promise for other things, though,” he purrs.

The pair begins making their way to the bedroom, pausing every now and again to wind arms around each other, to steal kisses from hungry mouths. Alexei unbuttons the front of Dmitry’s work shirt and shoves it clear of his shoulders. The garment still dangles at his wrists until he works to unfasten the sleeves, smiling against his shoulder as he struggles to maneuver the inverted fabric back into place. “Sorry, I should have done this part first,” he apologizes.

“You’re doing fine,” the accountant reassures him, gathering the hem of the other man’s shirt and assisting him to pull it over his head. Alexei can’t stop staring at the younger man’s body. He bends so that his teeth lightly pluck at one exposed nipple and Dmitry hisses. He teases the shallow peaked mound beside it and unfastens the fly of his own jeans, impatiently divesting himself of the rest of his clothing, his attention focused on the divine sight in front of him. The sounds that the taller man is making are driving him insane. He massages the soft rolls around his middle, kissing his way down his abdomen, then sucking at the love handles until the alabaster flesh grows pink. He watches his features, the slight panting part of those flushed lips and the languid dip of his thick lashes as he unbuckles his belt, letting the weight of that accessory carry the trousers to the bedroom carpet. The waistband of his briefs are tugged off next. Applying subtle pressure indicates he wants the younger man to turn around while he sits on the edge of the bed. He kneads the twin globes of flesh that come into view, slapping one cheek and watching the faint answering ripple across the creamy expanse. His thumbs slip into the dimples of his back, the handle that nature has conveniently provided, and his fingertips tighten against his flesh.

Alexei shuffles further back across the bed and Dmitry moves in turn, allowing himself to be pulled onto the mattress to rest on his side, the two men now aligned like spoons, matching lines and curves. The older man laps at the younger’s perfumed neck and jaw and worries the patch of skin behind his ear. Their tongues meet and the pair moan. Alexei holds his tongue out straight and thrusts it back and forth between the other man’s lips. Dmitry sucks the offering like he would his cock, head bobbing back and forth enthusiastically. There’s already a messy trail of saliva staining his skin, precum leaking from his cock.

”There’s lube on the nightstand in case you wanted to…”

”Hmmm? Oh. You’re wet enough already, aren’t you? Your cock is drooling…” Dmitry’s cheeks flush bright pink and Alexei realizes what the other man is delicately hinting at. “Oh, you mean…” He strokes a hand over his hip. “Doesn’t that take a bit of time and prep? Not that I don’t want to, but I’d rather not rush.”

”I agree, and yes, you’re right. I just thought maybe to start with we could…”

”Maybe we could…what? Are you getting shy on me, Dima?” He nips at his bottom lip.

”You could rub your cock other places,” he suggests in a breathy voice, covering his hand and guiding it beneath his balls to the junction of his legs.

”Oh…oh fuck, yes, let’s do that.” Alexei grabs the lubricant waiting on the bedside table and slicks up his own prick, finding the liquid warm and almost oily, then wedges his hand between Dmitry’s thighs, stroking over his taint and teasing the puckered skin of his anus. The dark haired man shivers and writhes as his partner manipulates one thigh, slightly raising and angling it, then thrusting his cock into the narrow channel between it and its neighbor. The turgid organ glides into the tight, slicked heat of that confined space and they both groan together at the sensation. His teeth sink into the meat of Dmitry’s shoulder. He begins fucking between his smooth, thick limbs and grips his raised hip tightly, setting an even rhythm, the sound of wet skin against wet skin deliciously lewd.

“You feel so good,” he praises the younger man. “You like it?”

”Mmm-hmm.” Dmitry’s head lolls back and he gives him a sloppy kiss that doesn’t quite align properly but Alexei is past the point of caring. Everything is hot and wet and it feels like heaven. He reaches for his lover’s cock and begins stroking in time with the snap of his hips. He loves the feel of grinding against those plump cheeks, the little whimpers and gasps as his thumb rolls over the tip of his uncut dick and his own pleasurable strokes past the sensitive skin between those lubricated legs.

Dmitry’s hand joins his around his cock. Perspiration stains them both. Alexei’s lungs are burning. He feels his balls tighten. He’s going to paint the other man white. He’d abstained from masturbating all week, saving up a big load for his partner.

”Lyosha…”

“Oh fuck, I’m going to come…”

He shoves a final time between the slick thighs and then tenses, his cock spitting out a copious amount of seed. Dmitry follows soon after, his release dripping over their joined fingers. Alexei licks at the salty taste of the other’s man’s throat before rolling onto his back. His companion turns onto his opposite side so he can properly face him.

“I think I made a mess of your sheets,” Alexei pants, grinning.

“I expected as much. I’ll just toss them in the wash, no big deal. Then we can go pick up dinner. You can help me make the bed after.”

“Sure.” He wipes his hands off on a dryer section of bed linen beside him and then reaches out to smooth some of the damp strands of hair back from Dmitry’s brow. There are tender words he wants to say but he’s still unsure of them. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“No plans, really. Why, you need help with another home improvement project?” He teases, his dark eyes sparkling.

“Not this time. I want to take you somewhere. It’s a surprise that I know you’ll enjoy.” He knows he’s supposed to be inviting him over for dinner but he’s not quite prepared for that event just yet.

“Then I don’t see how I can refuse. What time should I expect you?”

“Maybe around ten?”

“And how should I dress?”

“Casually.”

“Alright. Shame you can’t sleep over,” Dmitry murmurs, leaning over to plant a kiss on Alexei’s lips.

“I was thinking about that. What excuse I might give. If we were both too drunk to drive…”

“Has that ever happened? You being that level of intoxicated, I mean.”

“No. I’ve never let it go that far. Especially because of my dad…” He frowns around the mention of his alcoholic father.

Dmitry’s eyes fill with sympathy and understanding. “Of course. Well, we’ll figure something out one of these nights. In the meantime, did you just want to get delivery instead? Stay in and watch TV?”

“I’m not opposed to the idea, but I feel bad not taking you out somewhere.”

”Don’t. I’m perfectly content spending the evening here with you. Besides, you’re taking me out on a date tomorrow, remember?”

”Yeah, that’s true. Okay, let’s stay in.”

”Ill go get the menus,” he says, brushing another kiss on his partner’s lips.

“Suppose I made you an offer,” the pale visitor says in a voice like autumn leaves skittering across pavement, whispery and dry despite the wicked dripping tongue you’ve spied, a sludge of tar coated in a thick layer of saliva.

“What kind of offer?” You ask warily, keeping a tight hold of your grandfather’s Mosin–Nagant rifle as you wait for a reply from the other side of the door. You’ve been locked in a kind of stalemate for several weeks now, unable to venture from your home, unwilling to allow the tall figure inside. He never seems upset by your continued refusal, his voice always calm, his demeanor more polite than most of his human counterparts.

“What if I kept the others away? No visitors. No soldiers. No guests begging for entry. Just you, alone. Undisturbed. At peace. Perfect solitude. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, dear hermit?”

You would indeed, and the lure of his words makes you curious. “How would you do that?”

The tall figure beams, the wicked points of his teeth glinting in the porch light. Perhaps when he’d still been human the smile had been ingratiating, charming, alluring. Now it simply seems ravenous. You can feel his hunger wafting right through the door, ready to devour not just your body, but your spirit, feasting on your discomfort and fear, the perfect garnish for his grisly meal. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself about those kind of details,” he purrs dismissively, making your gut twist even more.

“You mean murder.”

The rictus grin because flatter, the muscles in the shallow curve of the visitor’s jaw tensing. A faint break in composure, hairline really, and yet you tremble at the knowledge of that fractured boundary. “I think you are missing the point, my dear.”

“You still haven’t told me what you’re getting out of this.” The visitor hardly needs your permission to eliminate any who wander onto your property; he’s already dealt with several trespassers, even going so far as to display his handiwork, propping up severed heads and arranging corpses in various poses within sight of the farmhouse windows.

The grin becomes a smirk, lopsided and smarmy. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? I’ll require payment.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. Of all the things you might have imagined the creature to seek to barter for, this was perhaps at the bottom of the list. “You want money?” You ask incredulously.

The intruder laughs, and this, remarkably, is a pleasant sound. It is deep, the kind that resonates not from the chest but from the belly, a rumbling that has to shake itself free, working its way to the surface in gradual increments. “No, no, of course not. I have no use for such a thing.” His head tilts to one side, the sweep of dark hair falling over his chalky brow shifting with the movement, a shadow creeping over the moon. “I desire the only currency that matters—your blood.” He cannot quite tame that wicked tongue inside his mouth, the black tendril poking from behind his perfect white teeth, curling over them to touch his lips in anticipation, prematurely savoring this prospect.

You immediately take a step back. “You want to drink my blood?” You inquire, aghast.

“Just a small amount, really little more than an appetizer for myself. I assure you you’re getting the better end of the deal. I’ve always been generous to a fault.”

You shuffle closer again, peering once more at the shirtless figure through the peephole set into the door. His hands are still folded in front of him in a false display of patience, but there’s a faint line of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth punctuating his mention of feasting on your blood.

“It will only take a moment of your time. Once a week should be sufficient.”

“How will you…?”

“Oh, you really are a treasure. How do you think? With a bite, of course. I promise not to make a mess; the punctures will be quite tidy. Minimal scarring, if that’s what you’re concerned with.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, a bitter sound without mirth. “You think I’m worried about my appearance? That’s the least of my concerns.”

The visitor scowls, his relaxed composure slipping a bit further. “What’s the issue, then?”

“You want to bite my neck like some kind of vampire—”

“—It doesn’t have to be your neck. There are plenty of other sites I can feed from,” he interrupts smoothly.

“And I’m supposed to just trust that you’re not going to rip my throat open and kill me instead?”

He looks genuinely offended, the neatly steepled fingers collapsing and parting, his long arms now dangling at his emaciated sides. “This is a contract. A solemn vow entered by both parties. I give you my word.”

You hesitate, and the hesitation surprises you. Why are you even considering this? You might as well just fling open the door and invite him inside.

“Why do you even want it? You can drink your fill from any of your other victims.”

“Do I inquire why you prefer isolation?” He sniffs, one bare heel scuffing against the porch’s flooring as he deliberates whether or not to answer you. “There is a difference between what is taken involuntarily and what is willingly offered. It is like comparing a newer vintage of wine and a well aged one; there is a marked variation not so much in composition as in flavor.”

“If my blood is really as appealing as you seem to think it is, then I ask again what’s to stop you from overdoing it?”

“Are you implying that I have no self control?” His voice is low. Dangerous.

You shift your grip on the gun. Your fingers are beginning to cramp from how tightly you’re clutching it. “No, I’m not. But I have another question.”

He sighs loudly, clearly growing impatient. “Ask.”

“What happens if you sample my blood and you decide it’s not to your taste after all?”

“An event that will never occur. I have every confidence in your stock, just as I’m certain you have faith that I’ll keep your home secure. Enough deliberation. You have the information you need. Make your decision.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then I can promise you will never know a moment’s peace again. I will summon every visitor to this location. It will be a siren song to every human, and the men from FEMA will harass you incessantly. If you think not being able to go out into the sunlight is a hardship, you will surely feel like you’re dwelling in Hell on Earth when you’re tormented by every living wretch for miles.”

“If I agree to your terms under duress, wouldn’t that spoil that precious vintage you’re so eager to taste?”

The visitor’s palm slaps against the door and you jump, startled as the wooden structure rattles in its frame. When he speaks again, the words are pushed out through gritted teeth. “I grow tired of this banter. Do you accept my terms, yes or no?”

“A…Alright.”

His head lifts sharply. “Is that a yes? You agree to the terms?”

“Yes.” You can scarcely believe the word leaves your lips so readily.

The furrowed lines on the pale visitor’s features smooth out, the tension in the muscles between neck and shoulder visibly easing. He smiles. “Excellent decision. I’ll do my part, and return next week so you can hold up your end of the bargain.”

You nod, and then realizing he can’t see you, you manage another agreeable sound.

He departs as silently as he came, leaving you alone once more. It takes you a long time to fall asleep that evening, your mind swirling with thoughts of what might happen when he returns to collect his due.

~~~

That week nothing happens.

Not a single knock at the door. No horrors on display in the yard. No bone chilling cries or menacing shouts. You enjoy the peace and quiet, until you remember what the cost of that luxury will be.

The pale visitor returns exactly seven nights later. He knocks politely on the door. You know it’s him before you even look through the peephole; before his knuckles even rap against the wood. There’s a distinct presence about him, an aura that spreads like an oil slick announcing his arrival, making the hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Good evening,” he greets. “How was the week? Did you enjoy your solitude?”

“Yes.” The sound of the word is a faint croak. “Were there a lot of people you had to…had to…”

“…Dispatch?” He supplies. “A fair few. But you needn’t linger about those unpleasant details. Let’s move on to other topics. Namely, your payment.”

You inhale and exhale deeply. “I think my wrist would be best.” You’ve been giving this some thought, and you feel like this is the least intimate place he might bite.

“As you wish.” Nothing in his tone suggests he’s pleased or displeased with your choice.

“I’m not letting you in. I’m just going to stick my arm outside the door.”

A brief flicker of annoyance creases the corners of his dark eyes, the thin lips spreading to an even narrower line, but he nods his acceptance.

You unlock the door, cautiously easing your left arm through the sliver of a gap you’ve allowed, your heart pounding like mad.

The visitor’s touch is cool and surprisingly gentle. You allow him to bend your elbow, lifting your wrist higher.

“Hold still.”

You close your eyes, struggling to obey. His breath ghosts across the thin skin on the inside of your wrist, warm and humid, the only warning you’re given before his teeth pierce your flesh. You stifle a cry, biting your bottom lip. The sensation is akin to stabbing yourself with a sewing needle, unexpected and sharp, and just as brief. Now suction is applied, lips latching over the marks to form a boundary, the coaxing pressure of his tongue drawing your life essence inside his mouth. You begin to feel drowsy. The feeling becomes increasingly pleasant, almost like slipping into warm bath water.

“Enough.” Your wrist is released and all of that lax warmth fades, the evening air suddenly cool against your damp skin, whatever spell had been cast broken as you become alert once more.

You swiftly withdraw your arm and shut the door, quickly assessing the damage. You’d been expecting to see blood still dripping from the wounds he’d just inflicted, but the twin holes are surprisingly small and there is very little blood staining your skin. A neat job of it, as he’d promised.

“So, homeowner, what do you think? My terms are agreeable, yes? Both parties satisfied with very little exertion or discomfort required.” His skin seems a little less pale, a bit of color highlighting his gaunt cheeks.

“It didn’t hurt too badly,” you grudgingly admit, rubbing your arm more in disbelief at how normal it felt than any attempt to soothe it. “Did you…did you…”

“Did I what?” The wide grin splitting his lips apart informs you that he knows exactly what you’re attempting to ask.

“Did you enjoy the taste? Was it what you imagined it would be?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I certainly did.” You watch his tongue run over his teeth, as if hoping to catch any stray remnants of your blood tucked between them, and you shudder. “Well, I believe that concludes our business for this evening, so I’ll bid you farewell for now. I’ll return in one week.”

The visitor departs and you seek the comfort of a hot shower. You scrub at your injured arm, at the marks left there, and your fingers stutter over your lathered skin as you recall the feel of his mouth pressed there. It is a memory that resurfaces after you’ve slipped into pajamas and returned to your bedroom, nagging and gnawing, making you toss and turn, driving that same arm beneath your pillow in search of cool relief, a distraction from the heated awareness that you’d actually liked the feel of his mouth dragging your lifeforce from your body.

Another week passes. No one comes to your door until the seventh evening.

The pale visitor has returned.

“Good evening. How was the week?”

“Quiet,” you reply.

“And your arm?”

“Healing well.” It’s true; the tiny scabs that had dotted your inner wrist have already fallen away, leaving faint pink dots in their wake.

“Good.” He rocks forward slightly on his feet and the porch floorboards creak.

“I’m going to open the door.” You make good on your claim, a wedge of moonlight spilling through the gap. You hesitate, then widen it, deciding at the last moment to let it swing open completely.

The visitor makes no move to push his way forward, and you’re not certain if you’re relieved or disappointed.

You keep your eyes open when he bites you this time, the same wrist offered up once again. You do not mute the sound that emerges when his teeth break through the surface of the skin. You watch and you feel, the sharp gone soft, two pieces melding to one. Drinking you in, like taking communion. Solemn. A touch when he is finished that might be a kiss, lips pressing without need, not to sup but to offer a goodbye. He does not speak when your arm retreats back to your side, the movement slow this time, careful. He looks at you a moment longer and then he turns away, descending the stairs and disappearing into the fields.

~~~

“Where do you go?” You ask quietly during another visit. The weeks have spread to months. He has not bitten you yet this evening. The door is wide open. You’re wearing a dress tonight, the buttons lining the front of the material the same shade of onyx as the visitor’s hair.

“What do you mean?”

“When you leave here, where do you go? When the sun comes up…”

“Wherever I can find shelter. A vacant home. A barn. A cellar. Any place that suits my needs.”

“Do you miss having a place to call home?”

A flicker of something in his eyes. Dark eyes to match his hair, your dress, the sky above. “I have no need of such a place anymore.” He pauses, his eyes sweeping up and down your form. “Your attire.”

“Yes? What about it?”

“It’s different from what you usually wear.”

“Do you like it?”

“It doesn’t matter what you clad yourself in,” he claims, but his eyes say something different. “Let us complete the contract.”

“Here,” you say, tapping against the side of your neck.

If he is surprised by your request, he is careful not to reveal it. One hand settles on your waist, the other threading through your hair to cradle the back of your head as his lips find your throat. Bone cleaves skin and vessel and his grip tightens, tugging you against him. You have never been this close. You had imagined he might smell like decay, like the vile things he consumes. Instead you detect pleasant notes of rich earth, fresh cut grass and the smoke of perfumed incense. You reach past the rows of ribs straining his chest and clutch the wing of one shoulder blade.

He stops feeding, releasing you and stepping back. You almost invite him inside. Almost.

He is gone.

~~~

“Good evening.” This time you are the one to issue the greeting. “How was your week?”

“Fine.” He looms at the threshold. His shadow has already crossed it, teasing the feeling of being indoors.

“Come inside,” you invite, before you lose your nerve.

His breath hitches. The night takes on a new kind of quiet, as if holding its breath.

When he enters, he has to duck his head. Your feet are bare like his. They tuck neatly between them when he presses you against the wall. The picture frame set on the nearby table falls. The slips of yellow paper tacked above the cordless telephone rain down like leaves. Your hands cage his slender waist and he shakes. Your lips brush his collarbone and he nuzzles your hair. For every question one body asks, a ready answer is given by the other.

The path behind the pale visitor is so clear and certain: a compass’ needle unwavering in its direction; a magnetic link guided by molten iron in the Earth’s core, in his core, to home, to you, to the care and affection you offer and the indulgent thought of what future he might one day enjoy with you.

The path ahead is less certain, the same bright moon that illuminates the fields both a help and hindrance. What grants him sight allows his enemies to visualize him better as well. He knows his destination but not the route to get there beyond a vague descriptor of west, of kilometers that may or may not be an accurate depiction of distance indicated by his human companion’s standards.

He knows the pace he’s setting for the FEMA agent is unreasonable, but he’s anxious to complete his task and return to you victorious. He does not allow himself to imagine any other outcome. He will succeed. He has to.

“You’re going…too fast…”

The intruder casts a quick glance over his shoulder and sees the hazmat suited figure flailing among the cornstalks, falling further and further behind, his noisy tred and gasping breaths forcing the visitor to finally slow down, cursing under his breath as he does so. He’d dispatch the man, if he didn’t think he might be useful; if he hadn’t dangled that little bit of information about his past in front of him, a tempting bribe he hadn’t been able to refuse.

He shouldn’t be so caught up in learning about his past; he should focus on the present. Lamenting what has gone before will not gain him anything. Yet he can’t help but want to know, curiosity still haunting him. He sees the acceptance, feels the warmth you regard him with, as improbable as such a thing could ever be, and yet even the mirror of himself you offer feels too thin and fragile. It’s an outline without detail, without the little bits of color and light and shadow, a hollow shell without proper form and weight and permanence. He wants to be real for you, not just a collection of scattered memories belonging to a monster wearing the guise of a man who’s taking a stab at cautious domesticity and romance. This is why he has to retrieve your neighbor’s daughter, to prove his worth is more. To not only take but to provide.

“They only…do intake…at night. They won’t…begin…until morning.”

The visitor abruptly halts, and the FEMA agent finally manages to catch up, bending over with his hands resting on his knees, his breath coming in rapid gasps that cloud the chilled autumn air.

“Begin what, exactly? And breathe more quietly. You’re making too much sound. A deaf babushka could hear you a mile away. You’re poorly conditioned considering your occupation,” he observes, scowling.

“That’s probably…because I’m not…a real FEMA agent.”

The tall figure immediately tenses, gathering a handful of the yellow outerwear’s front and lifting until the man’s feet dangle helplessly above the ground. “You’d better explain yourself quickly, before I end you right now.”

The man’s hands flail at the one knotted in his protective gear, to no avail. The grip is like iron. “Wait! Let me explain! I work for them, but I’m not one of them. I joined their ranks only recently to spy and gather reconnaissance. Didn’t my cousin tell you?”

“I don’t even know who your cousin is.” The visitor sets him back down but keeps a hold of the fabric, still undecided about the individual’s fate.

“That’s right, the memory loss. You’re not like most of the others, though.”

“Elaborate. I don’t—” He cuts off abruptly, crouching and dragging the other man roughly down with him. “Quiet. There’s someone nearby,” he hisses. His head cocks to one side, trying to detect the movement more closely. There. Another visitor, and their prey, an older human. Easy to handle them both if he were alone, but he doesn’t dare leave his companion unattended, uncertain where the devious man’s true loyalties might lie.

His eyes flick to the FEMA agent’s features. He sees fear and uncertainty there, but no malice. He lays a finger across his own lips, and the man nods his understanding. The tension increases as the concealed pair continue to wait. A single scream pierces the air, then silence. The human beside him shivers. Ill suited for his current profession indeed. It’s a wonder the man has made it this far.

The pale visitor ignores the enticing scent of freshly spilled blood, waiting for the creature to have its fill before it leaves the remains of its meal and moves on. “Alright. It’s finished feeding. Let’s go.” He sets a more reasonable pace this time, pausing every now and then to let his companion rest, even though the gnawing sensation to move more quickly nearly overwhelms him. He estimates they’ve completed about three quarters of the journey thus far, if what the other had claimed about the distance to their destination was accurate.

During the next break, the tall visitor speaks once more, his voice hushed, ever cautious of potential enemies hiding in their surroundings. “What are they doing with the ones that are taken? Why I am different from the others?”

The man moistens his lips before replying. His hair has further loosened from its messy gathering, falling in damp strands around his face. “Testing. Not to see if they’re human or visitor; they already know how to detect that. They’re researching how virulent the infection is. How it’s mutating.”

The visitor studies the male human beside him. “What about a cure?”

He shakes his head. “None that I’m aware. As for your other question about why you’re different from the others…” He shuffles his booted feet in the dirt, looking uncertain.

“What is it?”

“I believe it’s because you got the injection.”

“Injection? What injection?”

“They rolled out experimental shots under the guise of routine flu vaccines for randomly chosen individuals.”

The intruder’s jaw tightens. “What was in the syringe?”

“A variant of the plague that’s sweeping the village right now. An earlier version of their pet project. Then this solar flare occurred, and it mutated it somehow; at least, that’s what I’m theorizing. I don’t know all the details. I don’t have the clearance required to get that kind of data, and I don’t trust anyone in the organization well enough to ask.”

“Are you telling me this infectious agent was created in a laboratory? Man-made intentionally? And deliberately spread to the population?

”I’m afraid so. FEMA has been lying from the very beginning. They weren’t suddenly organized to deal with this threat; they already existed, manufacturing it themselves.”

”You could be the one lying,” the visitor observes.

”I could be, but I’m not.”

The intruder pauses, weighing the man’s words and deciding they seem honest. Hopefully he’s not mistaken. “And no one stopped to think it might be prudent to discover a cure first in case things went awry?”

His companion shakes his head ruefully. “Greed trumps practicality every time. They were focused on sales. Profits. A successful weapon of biological warfare is worth a fortune. Civilians in some small village seemed easily expendable. They thought releasing it into a smaller, less populated area would make it easier to monitor and manage. But they underestimated how well their little virus would work; how fast and how far it would spread. And of course, who could predict the sun would become our enemy? They’ve lost control, and they’re scrambling desperately to regain it.”

The pale visitor exhales. He’d known that the FEMA agents were dangerous, some innate instinct cautioning him, making him mistrust their allegedly benevolent intentions, but he’d never thought their suspicious behavior went so far as to include deliberately harming mankind.

“How can FEMA be stopped? How can this virus be prevented from spreading any further?”

“I plan to stop FEMA by exposing them. But that’s not something done lightly; the word of one turncoat won’t be enough. I need physical, irrefutable evidence, and I need a platform that can reach outside this village—a large news outlet, something with some weight and influence. Word from the top is starting to trickle down. They’re talking about blocking the borders soon, a last ditch effort to keep this infection in check. It will be impossible to go anywhere once we enter a quarantine. The zone will be off limits. No one coming in, no one going out. The military is mobilizing, prepared to enforce that barrier very soon. I’m running out of time.”

The visitor mulls this information over. This isn’t a task for one man alone; he needs allies. People he can trust. Such a thing was difficult enough the way the world was before, and now? The odds are clearly stacked against him. Suddenly the intruder realizes it’s not enough for you to have a place to shelter in; FEMA has already proven they no longer respect boundaries, demonstrated by their recent trespass into your home to search it. Neither of you can simply hide forever; to linger much longer will mean you’ll both be trapped within the barricaded village. And even if he somehow manages to orchestrate an escape, it’s only a question of time before the virus inevitably spreads elsewhere, perhaps mutated into some newer, even more terrible form. You’ll be running forever.

That’s not the life he wants for you.

“This can’t happen,” he murmurs. “We can’t let it.”

“I’m glad you agree. If anyone had told me I’d be teaming up with a visitor to help my cause twenty four hours ago…” His voice trails off, then is softer when it returns. “My cousin didn’t make it. The last time I spoke to him, I warned him to get out. I’m sure he warned you, too.”

The intruder frowns. “I do remember trying to evacuate. My car broke down. I tried finding shelter, but I got caught out in the sunlight.”

“So that’s how it happened, then. Your transformation.” The man from FEMA looks down at the ground. “I saw Vasiliy—my cousin—after he got infected.” He swallows thickly. “FEMA ended up shooting him once they were done with their tests, and then burned his body. I couldn’t stop them and risk blowing my cover. I knew it was already too late for him, but it didn’t make my decision any easier. They’re telling people to keep burning the remains, but I don’t think it’s helping any.” A sad smile ghosts his lips as his head lifts to regard the tall figure beside him. “He liked you. I guess you guys had lunch together every day. Always talked about the tall guy at work. The gentle giant. Saw a photo from an office party, once. Then that image they began circulating to the news outlets when you started wiping out their numbers. That’s how I recognized you.” He sniffs, wiping his nose on the cuff of his sleeve. “Anyway, that’s it. Now you know about as much as I do.”

“I’m sorry I don’t remember him. Perhaps with more time I will. My memories have been returning little by little.” He pauses. “How is the virus spread, precisely?”

“Bodily fluids. The rumors about fungal spores, parasites, insects, all of that—they’re just rumors. Smoke and mirrors. Distraction. Knowledge is power, and they’re not going to let the public have that. They know the screening ‘tests’ they’ve developed aren’t one hundred percent accurate, so they don’t mind drip feeding that here and there. Adds to the paranoia and fear. Keeps people separated. Weak. Easier to manipulate that way.”

The visitor barely registers what the other man has revealed after his information about how the virus is spread. Bodily fluids, like saliva and blood and semen. You’ve been exposed to all of those, because of him. Because of his lust and the want to be anything other than what he is: a freak pretending he is still a man. His hands begin trembling and he balls them into tight fists to combat the tremors. “And the incubation period?”

“Hmmm? Oh, I’m surprised you don’t know. Haven’t you ever…well, maybe you haven’t stuck around long enough to see the end result of your attacks. It’s rapid. Within hours. There seems to be some variation in how many, but the longest recorded is twenty hours, I believe.”

“What if…” He hesitates, his heart stuttering as he stumbles over his words. “What if someone has been exposed and several days have passed? Is there a chance that they’re going to be okay? Is there a possibility that they’re actually immune?”

The hazmat suited man looks at him sharply. “You know someone like this? Who? Where are they?”

The visitor remains silent for long moments, then finally responds. “She’s a friend of mine. She’s the reason I’m out here right now, trying to rescue her neighbor’s daughter that FEMA kidnapped.”

The man’s eyes shine with excitement. “Do you realize what this means? If this person actually is immune…I need a blood sample for analysis. You have to take me to meet her as soon as possible.”

The pale visitor shakes his head. “I don’t want her being taken away to be experimented on. If anyone found out—if FEMA found out—you know they’d never let her be free. They’d keep her captive somewhere. I can’t allow that.”

The FEMA agent rests a gloved hand on his forearm, suprising them both by this contact. “But think of the good she could do. We could finally put an end to this nightmare,” he implores.

“You won’t lay a finger on her, you understand me?” The intruder shakes his hand off with a rough jerk of the thin, muscular limb.

“I’m doing you a favor, helping you on this rescue mission. I just gave you exclusive information. You owe me. You owe humanity.”

“We still haven’t completed the task yet. And I owe you—and humanity at large—nothing. I was infected against my will with that damn injection. Then I got left outside to die. The only person who’s shown me any kindness and decency you want to kidnap and experiment on and torture. No. My answer is no. Never,” he growls vehemently.

“I never said I wanted to kidnap or torture her. What if she wants to help us? What gives you the right to speak for her?”

The visitor’s jaw clenches and he remains silent. He doesn’t have the right; not really. Especially not now, knowing the harm he almost caused you. But you’re safe, by some miracle; he has to believe you truly are immune. To consider the alternative…He simply can’t. He can’t bear the thought of losing you to this wretched virus.

The FEMA agent nods slowly in understanding. “So it’s like that, then. Will wonders never cease?”

”What do you mean?”

”You’re in love with her. A visitor, smitten with a human. Who would have thought such a thing is possible? You really are unique, aren’t you?”

The pale figure straightens, nostrils flaring slightly as he attempts to detect any scents belonging to others that might prove harmful, but the air seems clear, for now.

“We’re wasting time. Let’s get moving.”

|~~|

The entrance to the mobile laboratory is guarded by two men from FEMA.

The pale visitor takes them both down quickly, dragging the bodies into the nearby overgrown weeds before signaling to his companion to follow. They slip through the tent flap cautiously, studying the interior with its stocked shelves and cluttered counters, its medical equipment and examination tables, the latter occupied with sedated subjects.

He spies the young girl that was taken almost immediately, moving towards her while keeping a wary eye on his surroundings. A FEMA scientist approaches but his new ally quickly attacks him with a blunt strike of the butt of his rifle against the back of his skull. He nods his gratitude, then finishes freeing the unconscious child from the restraints, slinging her limp body over one shoulder.

He pauses then, glancing at the other people imprisoned nearby. Some are visitors, but some are human as well.

“Are you going to leave the rest of them behind?”

“They’ll slow us down. It’s too risky. I just came here to rescue…” His words trail off. “I can’t carry them all.”

“Then pick one more. One is better than none.” The FEMA agent attempts to access the nearby computer for information without success. “Damn it. They’ve changed the passcode.”

“We don’t have time for all that.” The intruder hesitates beside a petite middle aged woman with wire rimmed glasses and a kindly face. “This one. She’ll be easy to carry.”

“Okay, hurry up,” the man replies, his grip on the rifle tightening.

The tall visitor finishes unbinding the sleeping woman and drapes her over his other shoulder. “Time to leave.”

The FEMA agent hesitates, looking around the lab. “There’s so much valuable information here. They’ll tighten security after this. It’ll be even harder to access.”

“It can’t be helped. We’re not prepared to challenge them right now. Are you coming? Or do you intend to confront them head on without any preparations? All of your intel gathering will have been for naught.”

The man sighs heavily, his shoulder drooping in resignation. “You’re right. Now isn’t the time nor place.” He reluctantly trails after the visitor, slinging his firearm back over his shoulder.

“Hey! You! Stop right there!”

The visitor curses, exiting the tent and heading back into the cover of the nearby unharvested crops. He spares a moment to see if he’s being followed, noting his sleuthing companion is frantically trying to keep up, a half dozen FEMA workers just behind. If he wasn’t carrying the humans, he would stop long enough to dispose of the men chasing them, but he doesn’t want to risk it until his charges are safely secured somewhere.

“I knew it was too empty in there. Where there’s one, there’s a dozen more. God damn cockroaches,” the other man curses as he draws closer.

“Save your breath. Keep moving,” the visitor advises. The dry leaves of the withered crops slap against his skin as he runs. “There’s a farmhouse with a big barn near here. I saw it as we passed by. We can hide in there.”

“That’s…your plan? Let them…back us…into a corner?” He’s panting again, once more struggling to keep up.

“I need to put these two somewhere safe. Then I can deal with them. Up ahead, on the left.” He doesn’t wait for acknowledgement, abandoning the fields to enter the barn adjacent to the house, quickly ducking into the gap between the sliding doors and laying both of the unconscious bodies down onto a floor strewn with dirty hay. He hopes the building is as vacant as it appears, giving the dim interior a cursory glance before he exits it to deal with the FEMA pursuers.

His human companion is no longer in sight.

The visitor heads back into the fields, straining to detect the fate of his ally and the FEMA agents, his senses focused on discerning any signs that might betray their location.

The smell of blood hits first, metallic and fresh, making his stomach growl. He ignores the sudden burst of hunger in his gut, approaching the area the tantalizing scent is emanating from.

It appears someone—something—has already completed his next task for him.

Every one of the hazmat suited men that had been chasing them lies on the ground, their bodies broken and shredded, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, deep furrows carved through the layers of protective gear to the vulnerable flesh beneath. A visitor crouches over one of them, its head lifting to regard the newcomer intently as blood weeps from a maw lined with vicious looking teeth. Unlike the rest of the pale visitor’s brethren, this one no longer even remotely looks human. Its features are grotesque, twisted and distorted, its arms and legs kinked at odd angles and the skin laid over them charred and raw both, as if it had been left in the new deadly sunlight too long. Perhaps it had.

From behind the unfortunate creature a new figure emerges: his ally, the rifle aimed at the repulsive attacker. Time seems to slow then, the next sequence of events happening in a sort of hazy, sluggish fashion. The disfigured visitor turns with surprising agility. The pale visitor calls out a warning. The rifle fires, the bullet’s aim diverted as the firearm is slapped away, now lodging in the intruder’s shoulder. The human goes down beneath the assailant. He cries out. More blood is spilled.

Too slow, those long legs leaping forward, arms reaching out to grasp the monstrous being, thrusting it violently aside. He ignores the clawlike nails raking his flesh, his thumbs digging into the visitor’s eyes until he feels the gelatinous squelch as they’re ruined. He rips at the disgusting flesh of its throat with his teeth and nails, severing it until at last the vile creature is extinct.

A groan draws the tall figure’s attention and he rushes to the side of his fallen companion. The man has a tear rent through the hazmat suit and clothing and the flesh beneath, blood leaking from the wounds gouged along his ribcage.

“Stupid man,” he grumbles, quickly moving to one of the other fallen men to tear strips of fabric to bind the lacerations. “You shouldn’t have put yourself at risk like that.”

“You’re welcome,” the injured man grunts, wincing as his torso is lifted and the makeshift dressing is drawn taut against his skin, applying compression to help stop the bleeding.

“I didn’t need your help. You should have stayed hidden. You can’t be that careless. Too much is at stake. And you shot me, by the way,” he grumbles. He registers the bullet wound as a dull ache, dismissing it for now. His new form makes him much more resilient; in a few days he doubt there will be much more than a scar remaining.

“That was an accident. I wasn’t aiming for you,” his comrade protests.

“Not that sorry about it, though, are you?” He mutters.

“No, not entirely.” He begins to grin, then winces in pain again when the visitor helps him to sit up. “The other two okay?”

“I’m going to check on them now, but they should be. Are you going to be able to make it to a field hospital?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d had a change of heart and were about to invite me to meet your girlfriend, let me crash with you for a few days.”

The wounded visitor manages not to smile around the title you’ve been given. Girlfriend. Is that what you are? Friend, lover, future something? Possible savior. A woman he might have infected. The latter thought sobers him, souring his mood. “You don’t want to simply lodge there; you’re going to be pestering her the entire time.”

“I mean, the topic is likely to come up. Besides, you’re the one who just said how important I am. Seems kind of foolish to just leave me out here all defenseless when I’m trying to help save everyone.” He accepts the hand the intruder offers and allows him to pull him to his feet. “God, those claws hurt. What the hell even was that thing?”

“Something new to worry about. Perhaps one of those mutations you mentioned. Be grateful it didn’t use its teeth. You’d be infected by now.”

“What do we do about the bodies?”

“Leave them for the carrion eaters.”

“I think that thing bit some of them, though. They’ll come back…”

Wordlessly the visitor goes from corpse to corpse, tearing the head free from each body. “Not anymore.”

“Jesus, that’s brutal,” the man remarks, retrieving his firearm from where it had fallen amidst a cluster of rotting crops and returning to the intruder’s side.

The pale visitor regards his companion with a critical eye, noting the way the man is cradling his side even while he himself absently rubs at his injured shoulder. “Are you going to be able to keep up?”

The FEMA agent’s expression brightens. “Does that mean you’re inviting me over?”

“If you promise to respect her wishes and keep her identity and location a secret.”

The man’s eyes slide from his. “I mean, that’s kind of a large ask.”

“Swear it,” the tall figure insists. “Otherwise I’ll leave you behind, no matter how valuable you might be.”

”You’d really be comfortable condemning all of mankind like that?”

”I would do anything for her. I’d burn the entire world down if it meant keeping her safe,” he vows.

The injured man sighs. “Alright, fine. I swear. You’re really that hung up on this girl, huh?”

///Before///

Alexei had forgotten the comfort of a warm bath; the lingering, lazy pause it puts on a day. Showers are fast, focused, full of intent on cleansing and then moving on, but this soak with his new partner transcends the act of merely clearing soiled skin. It’s pleasurable, the warmth of another at his back, the snug curl of the arm wrapped around his middle. His sides are gently pressed with folded knees that cannot be submerged, the length of Dmitry’s unoccupied arm laid upon his on the rim of the tub.

The married man lets his head fall back, thudding against the pillow of Dmitry’s chest and shoulder, his face tipping to the side so that the other man’s lips can rediscover his throat again, worrying kisses along the column of it. He’d already murmured an apology over marking him, but Alexei had brushed his concern aside, sweeping his own away with it. He’ll worry about that evidence later.

“I had forgotten how good this feels,” Alexei murmurs languidly, stirring the calm surface of the water as he flexes his toes.

“It’s a weekend tradition. It’s important to make the most of the time that is finally allowed.” The hand resting on the older man’s abdomen snakes upward, pausing now over his sternum. “I’ll help make your repairs, if you let me; teach me what needs to be done. The job will go faster that way. Makes more time for other things.”

He likes the sound of the promise behind that last remark. “There’s not much to it. The measurements have already been taken. We get it cut to size at the store. You can help me carry it. An extra pair of hands is welcome.” The wrist resting on the tub’s edge rotates, his fingers spearing between the longer ones above. “You can hold the wood steady when I nail it down. Tell me what to purchase for the flower boxes.”

Dmitry hums around this prospect and a smile ghosts Alexei’s lips. He envisions the younger man studying seed packets and sprouts. Those long digits digging into soil the color of coffee grounds. He’ll know which plants are best suited for a life under full sun and which prefer shade, in spring rains and the forthcoming heated summer. Acidity levels. There’s a chemistry portion to gardening that he’s never troubled to learn. Something about hydrogen and aluminum, the way the roots can absorb nutrients. He’s certain the man seated behind him is an expert on such matters.

He knows he’ll look at those plants every time he passes them on his way in or out of the house, and they will serve as yet another reminder of the secret that’s holding him now so tenderly.

When the water grows cool the pair reluctantly leave the bath. The drain gurgles as they dry off. Alexei’s eyes are hungry for the view of naked flesh he’s offered. He crowds Dmitry against the sink, pressing tightly to him, one arm securing his waist. It feels so good, touching him like this, their bodies shed of clothing, testing how they fit together. The younger man’s face turns and they kiss. They take their time dressing. There is a kind of pleasure in that act, too, seeing how the garments are fastened, assisting in the process, appreciating the practiced movements of deodorant applied, aftershave splashed, wristwatch strapped securely once again.

Afterwards Alexei steps onto the narrow balcony to enjoy a cigarette and contemplate the view. Here is where he thinks he has made out better, the countryside surrounding his home far preferable to the sights of cars and concrete. There is a large flower pot tucked into one corner of the tiny patio and he smiles, noting it’s currently empty. Perhaps today that will change; he’ll offer to get him something to fill it.

Alexei’s gaze shifts to the wind chimes dangling from the corner of the neighbor’s balcony above, then to the sun catcher applied with suction to the sliding glass doors he’d just passed through. Pretty things, one in tone and one in appearance. The air is calm today so he shifts the dangling bits of hollowed metal himself and a gentle melody reprimands him. The morning sun teases the prismatic shards resting along the glass. He finishes his cigarette and returns indoors to brush his teeth.

The interior of the medicine cabinet makes him smile, too. So neatly organized, so different from the chaos of the shelves lining his own bathroom. He has a bad habit of pressing the toothpaste tube at random places, but this one has its crimped end neatly curled. Inside the wall mounted cabinets to either side of the mirrored one is the bottle of aftershave he’s so fond of, perched beside an electric razor with its cord neatly wrapped around the base. He also discovers body lotion. Natural tears. A pair of tweezers. Cotton swabs. A bottle of rubbing alcohol. A first aid kit. Spare bars of soap, body wipes, combs, toothbrushes, and a box of tissues. Dmitry seems so well prepared, his inventory of hygienic supplies well stocked. Alexei has a rusted can of powdered bleach and out of date drain clog remover he keeps meaning toss in the garbage and a package of toilet paper wedged against the pipe beneath the sink in his own cramped bathroom, a small mirror with no storage behind it leaning against the wall. He’s sure the younger man has a neat array of cleaning products down below in his, but he doesn’t bother checking. He’s dawdled in here long enough. He wants to get back to his new friend, and see what the day might offer them next.

He hesitates over where to place the toothbrush he’s been lent when he’s finished using it, then boldly slides it into the plastic cup beside Dmitry’s. It gives him an odd little thrill to see that reminder of his presence being left there, a calling card of sorts, a suggestion that this will be used habitually, during future visits. A larger wedge driven into the door of the accountant’s life. He’s making his way inside of it, little by little. He’s known him less than twenty four hours, and yet it feels like much longer than that. He feels so much more than a few hours’ worth of intimacy and affection inside of him.

Careful, Alexei. Don’t go getting attached. It’s too soon for that. Too complicated.

He turns off the light, batting at the switch the same way he batters away the cautious thoughts and exits the room. Dmitry is waiting patiently, seated in the living room. The technician’s eyes flick to the carpet, where he can see the imprint of where he’d been kneeling a short time before, the carpet fibers thrust in one direction, then the other, light against dark. Marks like the one on his throat. Like the toothbrush in the bathroom.

Don’t you dare start getting all googly eyed. You know what happens when you trust. When you care.

“Ready to leave?” His voice betrays nothing of his feelings.

The younger man nods and stands—no, not so much stands as unfolds. He still can’t get over his height. They’ve spot cleaned their clothing where it was needed, mainly on Alexei’s hooded jacket, and he finds as he slips it back on that it’s already begun drying. Soon there won’t be any evidence of that earlier indiscretion left.

There are things Alexei already knows they can never have; things he will not allow himself to have. He cannot hold Dmitry’s hand in public or press a hasty kiss against his mouth while they’re shopping. He can’t rest a hand against the dip of his spine or comb his fingers through his hair when there are people nearby. He must content himself to stand beside him in the apartment building’s elevator, to let their arms casually brush as they walk towards his pickup truck. The younger man climbs into it with ease. He flips down the sun visor and Alexei secretly loves that; that he’s already adjusting the surroundings to suit him, altering his possession to make it his, too. He steals glances at every stoplight. He photographs every smile with his eyes. He doesn’t listen to the nagging thread of caution still warning him not to feel so much, reminding him that feeling one emotion inevitably segues into others, bringing pain and sorrow. He parks outside the hardware store and they walk inside together. Dmitry is careful not to let his long legs outpace him.

Alexei wants to press him against the bricks and mortar that comprise the building’s exterior and learn how he tastes when the sun has risen a little higher in the day, but he supresses the urge. Later. There will be a later.

“Look, there’s a dog!”

Before Alexei can respond, his new friend is already moving forward, kneeling next to a Siberian Husky reclining near the entrance.

“He belongs to the owner. I’ve seen him here before,” he says, halting. “So you like dogs, huh?” A new piece of information gathered.

“Love them,” Dmitry corrects, scratching between the canine’s ears. “But they don’t allow pets at the apartment. Another reason to start looking for a home. Who’s a good boy?” The dog’s tail thumps on the floor in enthusiastic agreement. He reaches for the name tag dangling from the collar. “His name’s Jet.”

The older man grunts in acknowledgement. Maybe one day they can visit the shelter, take one of the dogs out for the day. Go for a walk, visit the park. That might be a nice surprise to save for a future date.

“Do you like dogs, Alexei?”

“Yes. Dogs are good companions. Cats, on the other hand…”

“What’s wrong with cats?” He allows the dog to nose the back of his hand.

“They’re too snooty. Indifferent. It will be a cold day in hell before I’d ever allow one inside my house.”

“That serious? Perhaps you’ve only met an unfriendly sample. I assure you they’re not all like that.” He digs his fingers into the fur of the husky’s chest, then stands, giving the beast one last forlorn look of longing and affection before he turns to face Alexei. “Alright, let’s go find the lumber first. Where are the measurements?”

“Here. I don’t know if you can read my chicken scratch.” He digs into the pocket of his jeans and hands a slip of paper over to the younger man who frowns, squinting as he attempts to decipher the text.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it. Is this a five?”

“Six,” he corrects, wincing.

“Ah. Perhaps you’d better keep a hold of this, then.” He hands the list back, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“You can be in charge of finding an employee to cut things to size once we find what we’re looking for.”

“You’ve got it.” He waits for Alexei to retrieve a panel cart, then resumes walking beside him.

Some moments are spent locating planks in the correct dimensions, and then checking the pieces for knots and other flaws in the wood. Selecting the lattice proves much faster. As promised, Dmitry goes in search of an employee to help trim the wood, then the pair continue to the garden center.

“What about hardware? Paint?”

“I have the hardware already. Another weekend, I’ll repaint the entire thing. I’m pretty sure there’s still some in the shed, it just needs to be mixed because it’s been sitting awhile.” He pushes the wheeled cart around a garden hose lying on the path, gesturing for his partner to go ahead and browse the plants.

Dmitry returns a short time later with several young plants, packets of seeds, and bags of potting soil that are then added to the base of the cart.

They checkout and load the truck together, making sure the plants are secured in the interior back seat of the cab. The taller man frowns disapprovingly as he sets the pots down. “These haven’t been watered in at least a week. The soil is so dry. They’re going to lose most of their inventory if they don’t do something soon.”

“We’ll take care of the ones you rescued when we get back to my place,” Alexei says soothingly.

He finally chances reaching for the passenger’s hand once they’ve cleared the city limits, tangling their fingers together on the padded console between the seats. Dmitry smiles and he grins back, shaking his head. He can’t remember the last time he felt this good.

“Here we are.” The tires kick up the gravel lining the driveway as he slows and parks. The two men unload their purchases. He points out where the garden hose is in the shed while he retrieves the tools he’ll need.

They work well together, the task time required shortened considerably now that there are two sets of hands. Alexei removes the rotted lumber and Dmitry carries it to the wood pile, careful to pull out the nails. He helps lift the new pieces of deck flooring and fit them into place, bracing them while the other man secures each one into place. Early afternoon sees the job nearly done, the only remaining step for the newly constructed flower boxes to be filled.

Alexei cleans the yard, putting the tools back while Dmitry finishes planting. The homeowner takes a few steps back to admire their handiwork, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “What do you think?”

The younger man joins him, surveying the results of their labor. “It looks good. It’s a cute place. Cozy. Has character. Not cookie cutter like the new ones they build nowadays.” He inhales and exhales. “It’s really nice out here.”

“I was just thinking how convenient it must be living downtown, close to everything. Short commute.”

“Grass is greener on the other side, yes?”

Alexei nods. “But then there’s the fresh air and the quiet. The scenery. Maybe I’ve gotten the better deal after all,” he muses, then shakes himself free of his reverie. “Okay, city boy. Ready to go get some lunch?”

The bridge of Dmitry’s nose wrinkles. “City boy?”

“City man,” he corrects. “No? That isn’t better?”

The dark haired man chuckles, shaking his head. “I’d prefer another nickname.”

“Dima?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Lyosha?”

“God, it’s been ages since I’ve heard that one. Yeah, okay.” He climbs back behind the wheel and the taller man loops around the squat nose of the truck, sliding back into the seat he’d previously occupied.

Alexei watches him, that ache starting in his chest again. “If it wasn’t a Saturday, and the neighbors weren’t all around, I’d lay one on you right now.”

Dmitry smiles, peering through the windshield. “Do they have binoculars? Your closest neighbor looks to be that one there,” he points to a farmhouse in the distance.

“You never know. Sometimes teenagers come hang out in the fields, get drunk or high. Younger kids go exploring. There’s always bound to be someone around.”

He nods. “Makes sense.” His hand creeps over, fingers looping the ones resting on Alexei’s right thigh. “Think this is alright?”

“Yeah, it’ll do for now.”

He uses his left hand to turn the key in the ignition, unwilling to force Dmitry to relinquish his grasp. They pick up pizza and soda once they get back to the city and then Alexei aims for what’s little more than a dirt path on the return trip, something only locals in the immediate vicinity know about. Proceeding to the north leads to the home the younger man had pointed out earlier and the other farmhouses scattered nearby, but to the west the fields transition to wild growth and a stand of trees bordering a river. This is where the journey ends, with the pair exiting the cab to take in their surroundings.

“I never knew this was here.”

“Yeah, most people don’t.” Alexei lifts the pizza box from the dashboard and walks around to the tailgate. There’s an old blanket tucked at the far end of the flat bed that he spreads out, then climbs onto, letting his legs dangle off the end of the truck while he gestures for his companion to join him. Two cans of soda are cracked open and they begin feasting.

“So, your turn. Hobbies. What do you do for fun?” Dmitry takes a bite of his slice, quickly lifting a dangling strand of cheese into his mouth.

“Fun? What’s that?” Alexei quips, then shakes his head, silent for a few moments while he collects his thoughts. “You know, I used to love camping when I was a kid. Back before things went to shit and my dad wasn’t such a jerk, we used to do all the typical guy stuff together, the camping and fishing and hunting. He loved sports; the man was an absolute hockey addict. We went ice skating sometimes. Wasn’t any good at it; spent more time on my ass than on my feet. But we’d laugh it off. He had a good laugh. Infectious, I guess you’d call it.” He pauses to take a sip of his beverage, his eyes glassy with reverie. “Then we’d go home and have hot chocolate and cookies fresh from the oven. Mom was such a good cook.” He fusses with the can’s pull tab. “Anyway, that’s when things went south. She ended up with cancer. Aggressive. Spread into the bone. Gone soon, but not soon enough. She suffered, right up until the end. Wasted away to nothing. And it ate my dad right up. That’s when the drinking got serious. He changed. And so did I.” He swings his legs gently back and forth. “Things were never the same between us after that. I let my grades slip in school. Started getting into trouble. Stupid shit, like stealing beer and spraying graffiti. I guess that was my own fucked up way of grieving. Still pales in comparison to…anyway, he’s gone now, too. And I’m rambling. Sorry about that.”

“No. I want to hear it. I’m grateful you’re willing to share this. I’m sorry for your losses,” Dmitry murmurs, his expression full of sympathy.

“Yeah, well.” He sniffles, scrubbing at his nose with the back of his wrist, then takes a large bite of pizza, speaking around the mouthful as he chews. “Stupid to be getting emotional about it now. They’ve both been gone for years.”

“That doesn’t mean you stop feeling. You loved them, and they loved you. Maybe your father wasn’t able to convey that at the end, but…it was still there. Grief manifests in different ways for different people.”

“I suppose that’s true.” His head tips back, studying the way the early afternoon sunlight filters through the trees. “Guess I just dragged the mood straight down, huh? Anyway, yeah, that’s me in a nutshell. It’s why I’m so antisocial. Just didn’t like myself or most anyone else after all that.”

“And your wife?” The younger man’s voice is quiet. “How did you meet, if I’m allowed to ask?”

He considers the request, then nods. “She was the daughter of one of the nurses taking care of my mom. Used to come there after school to wait for her dad to pick her up. She was a good listener. Breaks at the hospital coffee shop eventually turned into dates outside of it. We both graduated highschool and things just kind of went from there.” The side of the soda can makes a clicking sound as the dent he’s pressed into the thin aluminum relaxes. “I want to be clear about something, and it’s probably best we get this over with right now. I might not be head over heels in love with her, but I do love her as a person. I’ve never once thought about cheating before this. She’s a good woman, and I won’t ever speak ill of her. She was there for me when I had no one else. I don’t know how much darker things could have gotten without her. And before you say it, yes, I used her. I used her to help pull me back from the brink like a lifeline.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“That being said, I genuinely care for her. I don’t know how we got to where we are now, exactly. We just started becoming more like roommates than husband and wife at some point, stuck doing the same routine day after day and night after night. Life’s become a rinse and repeat cycle of work, chores, bills. I think she’s tired of me, and I’m tired of disappointing her.” He takes a hasty swallow of soda. “So once again, I’m left trying to figure out why the hell you’d want to get tangled up in all of this.” As buoyant and content as he’d felt earlier, this honest confession now leaves him feeling more weighed down than ever.

“Because I can see past this so called ‘antisocial’ front you have, this wall you’ve built around yourself. Because of everything you’ve just said to me. You’re not doomed to walk in your father’s footsteps. You're not him. You’re not a failure because you’ve been more comfortable with following a safe routine up until now, and you’re not—I honestly believe this—some terrible sinner because you were finally brave enough to take a risk last night and let yourself explore something—someone—new.”

Alexei mulls his impassioned words over. “I still think you deserve better,” he mumbles.

“And I still think you deserve to be happy.”

The older man watches the moving water sluicing over the rocks lining its bed, considering Dmitry’s statement. “We’re really doing this thing, huh?” He says quietly. “You and I. Building some kind of ‘us’.”

“Yes, I think we are.”

He nods, finishing the crust he’s still holding, then dusting the crumbs off his fingers. “Okay.”

They finish their meal in companionable silence. Dmitry finally slides from the tailgate and stretches, then reaches for Alexei’s hand. They walk to the water, the packed dirt at their feet shifting to softer sand.

“Do you ever go fishing here?”

“Yeah, further upstream. Catch and release, though.”

If the other man disapproves of how the aquatic life might feel about being jabbed with hooks, he doesn’t show it, merely studying the moving water.

“What was your childhood like, Dima?”

“My parents worked full time. I was home alone a lot. They always made sure I had everything I needed. Wanted. Material things. I think I would have traded a lot of those with more time spent together, but it wasn’t my call to make. They live near Moscow now. I visit them a few times a year.”

“No siblings?”

“No. I’m an only child like you.” He tilts his head to one side. “I want to go in the water.”

“It’s going to be cold, this time of year.”

“I don’t mind. Not all the way in; I just want to get my feet wet.”

“I think you’re addicted the water.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Alexei strokes his thumb over the inside of Dmitry’s wrist. “I think I’m addicted to you,” he says quietly. “Maybe it’s too soon to say that, but…”

“I understand.” The younger man cups his cheek. “Come in the water with me.”

He nods. They unlace their shoes and pull off their socks, tucking them inside. The hems of their pant legs are rolled up. Dmitry is the braver of the two, pulling him into the river first. Alexei gasps and shivers. He watches the other man pick his way carefully among the stones lining the bed. He’s gone further in, his shins now soaked.

“Come,” he beckons, and the older man obeys, wading in further. Hands frame his face. Then there is a different type of wetness. The heat of his mouth. His taste with its hints of garlic from the pizza sauce, sweetness from the soda tucked into the corner of his lips. The sunlight teases his skin. He clings to the other man, burrowing his face against his shoulder. Dmitry kisses his hair, nuzzles the throat he offers.

“I want to taste you,” he says, the words feeling thick and syrupy on his tongue. Dmitry nods, allowing himself to be lead back to shore.

///After///

“The river is low this season,” the pale visitor says outside Alexei’s bedroom window. He is seated cross legged on the ground, idly plucking at the overgrown lawn.

The man inside the house sits on the edge of the bed, facing the curtain covering the glass. He cannot bring himself to shift it, but he cannot bring himself to ask his former lover to leave the property, either.

“We haven’t had any rain,” he replies, his fingers knotting the sheets into crumpled shapes that might be the many layered centers of one of the flowers the other man had once enjoyed. “Why did you go there?”

“Why do you think? To remember. To reminisce. To try to piece together what I once was. You never went back there, did you?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Ashamed.”

“No,” he says sharply, his head lifting. “No, not ashamed. I was never ashamed to be with you. I was proud to be with you. I was happy.”

The laugh that answers is not kind. It sounds like the last match he’d scraped across the folded matchbook beside the bed, a rough protest. “It hurt, coming back to this world. Not just the physical pain, but the mental anguish of knowing I’d have to endure this all over again.”

“I didn’t want that for you, Dmitry.”

“Why do you call me this? That is not who I am any longer. You were very clear on that point, Lyosha.”

The nickname stings. “I was wrong.”

“Were you?” The visitor’s hands grow still. “You cannot pretend to enjoy what is before you now. All that youth and softness is gone. I’m a monster, as you said. There was a time you couldn’t keep your eyes or your hands off of me. Now you can’t bear the sight of me. The thought of touching what I’ve become repulses you. Do not bother denying it.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“What other way can it be?” He pauses. “How many of your guests have you killed?”

“A…a few,” he replies cautiously, caught off guard by this abrupt change in subject.

“Because you knew they weren’t human?”

“Because I…I thought they weren’t, yes.”

“Ah. There’s a difference in the knowing, confident, factual, fixed and immovable, and the hopeful, baleful thinking, isn’t there? You didn’t always judge correctly, did you?”

“No,” he admits, his voice tight with remorse. “No, sometimes I was wrong.”

”It’s not easy being the judge, jury, and executioner, is it?”

“I’ve done my best. It’s not easy for me, letting people inside. Letting people get close.” He reaches for the pack of cigarettes and extracts one with a shaking hand. It takes several attempts before he manages to light it, standing and then settling onto his buttocks on top of the floorboards beneath the window. The wood here is darker, untouched by years of tred. “If I open the window, will you try to break in?”

“No. I will not trespass until the house is empty of guests. Until you are alone. Open the window, then. I have not smelled that smoke for a long time. It is pleasant, compared to the odor of the bodies that FEMA keeps lighting aflame.”

Alexei tucks the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, then draws back the curtain slowly. The visitor’s head lifts, abandoning its ponderance of the ground. The homeowner swallows past the lump forming in his throat, unlocking the window and lifting the sash a few inches. Cold air flows inward through the layer of mesh screen, and his exhaled smoke drifts outward. He watches the flare of the button nose he’d planted so many kisses on as its nostrils drag in the scent.

“Why do you wear that shirt? It doesn’t fit you.” Dark brows furrow as the pale figure regards the blue ribbed sweater hanging loosely over the human’s torso.

“Because it was yours,” he replies. The end of the cigarette glows. Another breath out, another answering one drawn in.

“Sentimentality?” The creature outside scoffs.

“It’s lost your scent.”

“That fragrance is long gone, yes. Now it is metal that perfumes my skin. Elements from blood.” He plucks another blade of grass and winds it around one finger, then tugs it until it reaches the tip, the sharp, blackened claw of nail neatly cleaving it in two. “Why do you wear the shirt?” He asks again.

“Penance,” he responds this time.

“How does that work? Is it like saying a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers? Is there an equivalent there I’m not aware of? Enlighten an unbeliever.”

He recognizes the provocation behind the words but he holds firm, surprising himself. “It reminds me to take care. To think before I act. To ask for forgiveness when I choose poorly. To ask to be made better.”

“Do you really believe that’s possible? You’ve seen what the afterlife holds now. The nightmare landscape of it.” He spreads his hands as if to encompass the environment behind him.

“That’s what having faith means. Believing despite the despair. Pushing past the doubt. Holding true.”

Another mocking rasp of sound breaks free from the visitor’s lips. “If only you’d exhibited that kind of fervor and fastidiousness for our own relationship. Tell me, do you imagine you’ll be rewarded for such unwavering belief?”

“It’s not about reward. It’s about doing what’s right. Just.”

“And damn the rest of us sinners, right?” He shakes his head. “Do you think what you did to me was right? Just?”

Alexei jerks the cigarette from his mouth. “I did at the time, yes. I honestly believed it was in your best interests.”

“And now?”

“I wish you were well. Tucked away somewhere safe.”

“Human, you mean. Cowering like yourself.”

“Safe, he repeats, disregarding the latter insult. “And yes, human.”

“Well, that ship has sailed, hasn’t it?”

“Dmitry…”

“Stop calling me that!” The visitor slaps a palm near the edge of the window and the panes of glass rattle in their frame.

Alexei recoils, startled, then forces himself to lean forward again. The pale creature watches his movements, his fingertips pressing against the wood, his sharp nails creating splinters. His tongue emerges, dark like his nailbeds, like his hair, the fat wedge of it slithering from behind the barrier of his perfect white teeth, coated in a thick layer of saliva. The homeowner forgets the cigarette pinched between his fingers gathering ash at its end, staring at the monster outside his bedroom window, familiar and foreign all at once. He struggles to focus on his eyes. These are perhaps the least changed of his former lover’s features, despite the spiderwebs of crimson branching across his sclera.

“I don’t hate you, even now, even if you hate yourself.”

“Fuck you, Alexei.” The creature pushes itself to its feet, turning and loping back towards the fields without a parting glance.

///Before///

Alexei spreads the blanket from the truck on the clearest patch of sand he can find.

Dmitry sits down on it and the older man joins him, his palm sitting along the nape of his neck. He pulls his mouth closer, lets his fingers skim beneath the edge of the other man’s shirt, then the waistband of his jeans. He feels the tightening of the abominable muscles when he switches pathways, a playful little recoil as he realizes what’s happening.

“Talk to me, Dima. Want to hear you,” he breathes. The button of his fly surrenders, and then the zipper. “You gonna let me suck this big cock of yours until you explode?” He squeezes the bulge in Dmitry’s briefs and he groans.

“Yes, please, I want to…” His voice gets so much higher when he’s excited, an airy whine that makes the older man’s own prick struggle within its confines.

“Going to come inside you one of these days, too. Fill you up so good. Let you do the same to me. You want that, hmmm?”

“Yes—”

“Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me. I want to fuck you.”

“Oh, that sounds so sweet, coming from those lips. That mouth was made for profanity.”

“You were made for me,” Dmitry pants against his ear and his heart lurches harder than his restricted cock.

“Again. Say it again.”

“You were made for me. You’re mine.”

“Yes, Dmitry, oh fuck…” He grips the younger man by the belt loops, tugging the remaining barrier down while the other lifts his hips to accommodate him. His hands immediately seek out the delicious curve of his hip, so different from the straight line of his own. He licks a stripe along the flushed erection and the pool of precum dripping from the cloak of skin enshrouding the tip and his lover’s head snaps back as he’s overcome with pleasure.

A thread of saliva still links them and Alexei follows that trail, gently nudging against the base of his cock so that it rests upright and center, perfectly positioned to slide inside his widening maw. He sucks the uncircumcised flesh while it is still concealed and then peels back the skin to reveal the dome, once again taking his dick inside his mouth and sucking.

“Lyosha—”

“So sweet, so perfect…” The praise trickles out like the overflow of saliva spilling from his spread lips. His fingers dig deeper into the creamy bare skin of his hip, his thigh. He’s humping somewhere along his shin but he doesn’t care, it’s contact and that’s all that matters.

Alexei rolls his scrotum between his fingers, sucking softly at the sacks. Everything is a discovery with a reward: a gasp when he teases the tip of his cock with his tongue; a moan when he gags over the length, taking him fully inside; a keen when his fingers sweep over spit slick flesh and their eyes meet as Dmitry frantically props himself up on one elbow to better see the erotic display. The pretty flush is back in his cheeks, the ebony hair falling over his brow damp. The older man is torn between wanting to kiss his mouth and kiss his cock, ultimately deciding the latter is the greatest need.

Dmitry’s neatly manicured nails scratch at his scalp when he begins bobbing his head. He moans and moves faster. His free hand searches for the hand still clinging to his hip and their fingers tighten together. Alexei’s mouth is full of the taste of soap, of musk, of salt; every one he’s gathered here along this thick rod. He decelerates and accelerates, bringing him close to climaxing and then backing off.

“Alexei, please. I need to shoot…”

He obliges, his throat truly tested, his lips blurring. The hand in his hair is now splayed flat, trapping him in this position. Dmitry’s pelvis arches and he somehow finds a way to push even deeper, tensing as his cock erupts down the other man’s gullet.

Alexei’s throat convulses, swallowing every pulse. His lover’s fingers relax and his hips drop back down. The older man allows the spent cock to slip free from his mouth. He pants for air, regarding the man spread out before him. His throat burns and his lips are actually sore but they’re good discomforts; badges of his accomplishments, of his success at pleasing his new partner.

They return to the water soon after, this time shed of all clothing, wading deeper towards the center, in a place where the flow is not as strong. Dmitry’s hands find him hard and wanting beneath the sunlit water. He brings him to bliss quickly. Alexei playfully splashes him afterwards, the droplets of water landing upon his deltoid, his cheek, a lock of hair. He feels the years rewind; he feels like he’s been given a second chance. He drives and then walks the man back to his apartment, stepping inside just long enough to share a parting kiss.

“Thank you,” he whispers, hoping he understands how deep the gratitude behind those words runs.

///After///

The pale visitor does not feel the cold of the river as he once did.

He stands within it, not at its gentle, tapering end, but at its strongest rush, a rock that cannot be shifted no matter how vicious the currents are. He lets it batter him, moonlight capped and frothy, until at last he seeks the shore. He pays no heed to the saturated trousers clinging to his frame, the only article of clothing he now wears. He draws his knees up and he wreaths his arms around them, staring at the long, pale feet, the dark nails digging furrows in the sand.

He thinks of Alexei, so close and yet so impossibly far from reach. Further than he’s ever been.

The visitor’s stomach rumbles, a reminder that he hasn’t eaten yet this evening. He ignores this rebuke, turning his face so the bony caps of his knees now prop up his cheek. He can smell Alexei’s cigarette on him, staining his skin and threaded through his hair. It won’t last, and he mourns that fact; clenches his perfect teeth around the memory of the older man wearing his clothing. He wishes he had torn through the screen and climbed inside the house. He wishes he had broken the glass and the wood both, welcoming the cuts that would result, the tiny shards and splinters digging into his skin. He wants the smoke from that cigarette shotgunned directly into his mouth before they kiss. Before he pushes him down on the bed. He no longer cares that another woman occupied it first. He’ll make it his own. Theirs.

Wetness upon his skin startles the pale figure and his head lifts. Rain at last?

No. Something else. Saltier. Warmer.

He brushes the tears away angrily. He didn’t think himself capable of weeping anymore. He’d thought he had done enough of that when he was human, depleting whatever future stores he might have bottled inside. He’d thought he was past these weak emotions, these human kinds of feelings, save for a burning hatred, the only suitable kindling for the deadened space within his chest.

It surprises him to feel its opposite blossoming again, the first leaves pushing until they break through the earth, from his lips. A sound heard only by the forest, a cry of regret, of loss, of wanting. His hands ball into fists until the nails pierce his flesh, crescent marks that weep blood the color of ink. He barely feels it; there is too much hurt elsewhere. He coveted what he shouldn’t have; he covets still. He imagines the two of them being huddled up together at the edge of the world, at the end of days. The apocalypse doesn’t sound nearly as bad that way; Armageddon’s wrath not nearly so harsh. They could have weathered it in each other’s arms.

Another sound of anguish escapes before the visitor pushes himself to his feet. Why does he have full access to his memories when others of his kind do not? Why must he be tormented even in this wretched afterlife?

Would you really give them up, if it was an option? Would you do anything differently if you could repeat it over again?

He knows the answers. No and no. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

He begins walking along the riverbank, pausing every now and then to survey his surroundings. He rests a hand along the roughened bark of a tree, picking away at the outer covering until the fresh wood is exposed beneath. He thinks of holding a plank steady, waiting for Alexei to begin nailing it down. The scowl of concentration, the moistening of lips, the modest cowlick at the back of his head visible as he bows that he might not even know exists. A smile. What had started them on the path, way back at the beginning of this journey.

He shouldn’t go back to that house. He should walk away. Keep walking. Discover the fate of his parents. Try to discern some purpose for his new existence.

He should, and yet he doesn’t. The pale visitor returns to the fields. To the shelter of a ruined barn not far from Alexei’s property, the place that he’s taken up residency in during the daylight hours. He burrows down into the old hay in the loft. He wonders if the other man is asleep already; if he’s huddled beneath those blankets, arms hugging himself, clad in the shirt he’d once loaned him.

//Before///

He has a name for the man he’d met at the bar now, embossed on a business card that’s tucked into the glove compartment of his pickup truck beneath a pile of napkins from various drive thru runs, a home phone number neatly printed on the back before they’d parted ways in the bar’s rear parking lot.

Dmitry.

He tries the name out in the shower, the sound lost in the spray of water. Dmitry, the young man with the inky hair and depthless eyes. Dmitry, whose taste still lingers on his tongue, whose remembered touch makes his body ache with a phantom pain, there but not. Dmitry, with his careful voice and skillful hands and that soft smile he wants to lock away and keep for himself.

He hates himself for what he’s just done, but despises himself even further for how much he doesn’t regret it; how much he wishes it could have lasted longer, exploring the porcelain skin, so bare and unblemished compared to his own, beneath the younger man’s fine office clothes. He runs his work hardened hands now full of lather over his chest, brushing across the patch of dark hair there and silently cursing that it’s not the accountant touching him instead, stroking over his body, pressing newer against older, smooth against rough; everything he’s not and never could be laid along the length of his wretched frame, with its callouses seen and unseen; his bruised heart and blackening lungs and abused liver caged within; tapping the seam of the pitiful votive sheltering the flame of his tormented soul. The taller man tastes like hope, like things unspoiled, his mouth tantalizing with its offers, its invitations and permissions, its pleasures and promises.

The last vestiges of soap suds have long since washed drown the drain before he finally exits the shower, toweling off and about to drop the pile of work clothes still lying in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor into the laundry hamper for the weekend washing when he halts, lifting the shirt to his face. There, near the collar. It’s his scent, that potent aftershave fragrance stubbornly clinging to the fibers. His eyes slide closed. The ache worsens. The feel of his breath against his throat, his jaw, his ear. Spilling inside of his mouth. Part of himself swallowed down. He shudders. There’ll be no passing this off as a one time offense; even if he proves strong enough to avoid the younger man, the continued memories surely counted nearly as severely as the sinful deeds themselves. There’s so much more he wants to discover, to capture in his mind, photograph perfect, to look at and savor over and over again. It frightens him how much he wants it, the hands holding the garments trembling.

“Alexei? Are you almost finished? Dinner’s getting cold.” His wife’s voice calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ll be out soon.” He balls the shirt up, then wraps his pants around that bundle. Surely the scent will be gone by the time it travels from hamper to basket to the washing machine. Surely Irina will simply thrust the soiled garments into the drum of the washer without examining them too closely.

He reaches for the solid deodorant stick on the counter, about to apply it to his underarms when something in the reflection above the sink makes him freeze. He leans closer to the mirror, his fingers probing the skin on the side of his throat. There’s a maroon colored mark there, a series of vessels burst beneath the skin from the sucking mouth of his new lover. It’s midway along his neck, so possible to conceal with a shirt collar, but the crewneck shirt he’d selected to lounge in for the rest of the evening will provide no such coverage. Shit.

He ducks out of the bathroom and enters the bedroom, quickly rummaging around in the dresser, but he already knows it’s a lost cause. He doesn’t own any sleepwear that conceals his throat. He’s going to have to wear a pullover. Normally he’s very hot blooded, sometimes even sleeping in a tshirt and boxers in the middle of winter. Suddenly wearing extra layers is certainly going to attract unwarranted attention.

Well, there is no hope for it. It’s his only foreseeable option. He finishes dressing and enters the kitchen to find the table set for supper. His wife glances in his direction, doing a double take when she sees his attire.

“What are you wearing that for? Don’t tell me you’re actually cold for once.”

“Yeah. Maybe coming down with something.” He drags a chair out from under the table and settles into it. He has a habit of bouncing one knee when he’s nervous, and the temptation to do so now is nearly overwhelming. He clenches his teeth and focuses on sitting still. God, it’s only been a few hours and already he’s got a trail of evidence leading from his infidelity. Dmitry had been right: he’s not ready for this.

The blonde woman walks over to him and rests the inside of her palm against his forehead. He struggles not to wince at her touch, hoping his sudden grimace looks enough like his usual morose expression that it will pass undetected. “Hmmm. You don’t feel any warmer than usual.”

“Ah, I’ll be fine. Dinner smells good,” he says, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere, his eyes locking on anything other than her features, shifting from the magnets on the fridge to the tiled backsplash to the bottle of dishwashing liquid perched on the rim of the sink.

“Hopefully it’s not ruined.” She lifts his plate and returns to the stove. “So, how was your day? Anything interesting happen at work?”

“Not really. I did uh…I made a friend at the bar. Well, not really a friend yet, I guess. But we had a nice chat.” There. A little bit of truth sprinkled in between his other lies. That makes it a little less offensive, right? A little balm to soothe that wrenching guilt still wracking his gut.

You cheated. With a man. A man you barely know. And now you’re going to share a meal with your wife and act like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just blow your load down a virtual stranger’s throat and jerk him off onto your own stomach. Like you’re not already scheming about how you can create an excuse to see him even sooner than next Friday at the bar.

His cock actually has the nerve to twitch at the lewd memories. Fuck.

Alexei’s midway through raising a hand to make sure the collar of his pullover is still in place when his spouse turns to look over her shoulder and he feigns an itch instead, sawing at the stubble lining his jaw. “You actually spoke to someone? Voluntarily? You hate socializing.”

The seated man clears his throat. “We were discussing what was in the news and…yeah. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll invite him over to watch a game some weekend.” In the living room with the crucifix mounted on the wall, passing judgment. The most brazen kind of sinner there is. Maybe if he starts praying for forgiveness now he’ll have enough of those holy pleas saved up to counteract whatever filth might happen between them. That’s how it works, right? Checks and balances. Sin and repent.

Irina shakes her head. “Wow. I can’t imagine you chatting it up, but that’s great, honestly. You should have friends.” She finishes spooning out the sides to accompany what he soon discovers is meatloaf and sets the plate back down in front of him. “What does…what did you say his name was again?”

“Dmitry.” He tries not to purr the name, he honest to God does. He’s already imagining panting it beside his cheek the next time they’re intimate; having his own moaned back in turn.

“What does Dmitry do for work?”

“He’s an accountant.” He cleaves off a piece of the ground beef mixture with the side of his fork and chews it carefully. Normally he practically inhales his food, but he’s more than a little distracted at the moment, his appetite lost amidst the guilt and the lust at odds with each other, battling it out in his belly. The latter is definitely in the lead.

“Married? Kids?”

“Neither. He’s young. Maybe early to mid twenties?”

“We got married in our early twenties,” she reminds him.

“Yeah, we were young.”

His wife sets her filled plate down and joins him at the table, spreading a napkin over her lap and lifting her fork. “I was thinking of going to visit Anastasia tomorrow, but if you’re really not feeling well, maybe I should stay home.” She spears a green bean and bites it in half.

“No, don’t worry about me. I’m fine, honestly. You should go see your sister. It’s been awhile. I was thinking of finally getting started on the porch.” He was actually not thinking of that repair project. He was recalling the way Dmitry’s lips had looked wrapped around his cock while the younger man’s thumb broke apart the seal of his lips and he nearly chokes on the sip of milk he’s attempting to swallow. “Sorry, went down the wrong way,” he apologizes, thumping his chest.

“You’re ill and you want to be outdoors rebuilding the porch?” Irina repeats dubiously. She takes a dainty bite of her meatloaf, using a knife to cut it properly.

You’re being so fucking obvious. She’s been nagging you about that since last fall.

“I’m not that sick. And I think the fresh air and the sunshine will be good for me. I spend too much time cooped up indoors. Supposed to be nice out tomorrow. Perfect weather, warm and dry. I’ll take the measurements and head over to the hardware store. Maybe stop for lunch somewhere, too. Rent a movie for us to watch later. Make a day of it.” He shovels some mashed potatoes doused in gravy into his mouth.

“Well, if you’re sure. It would be nice to finally have that porch fixed up.”

“Tell you what, I’ll even make some flower boxes.”

Irina sets her cutlery down and reaches across the table, threading her hand through the napkin holder and floral centerpiece to reach for his. “Alexei, be honest with me.”

His heart starts thumping. Oh God. She’s figured it out already. You moron.

“Huh?”

“This is an early anniversary present, isn’t it?”

He exhales loudly. Great, now his own wife is supplying plausible excuses. “Yeah, you caught me.” His knee begins to bounce. Stop that.

“Well, I think it’s a lovely idea. Thank you.” She releases his hand and resumes eating.

And…crisis averted. For now.

///After///

There are too many living things lurking around Alexei’s property for the pale visitor’s liking: a group of teenagers smoking pot and a pack of wild dogs and FEMA agents on patrol.

The latter group is the most offensive but poses perhaps the greatest threat, so he seeks to clear out the first trespassers on the list. They’re so stoned they barely recognize what is happening until it is too late.

He glances down at their crumpled, lifeless bodies dispassionately for a few moments, then his head lifts and he stares at the nearby home. There are lights on in most of the rooms. It appears Alexei’s guests are still awake. Maybe he should bring them a housewarming gift. His gaze shifts towards the footpath through the fields. There’s a solider traversing it, trying to be stealthy, but no amount of training can compete with the supernatural gifts the intruder has recently inherited. It’s child’s play to locate him, to tear his head from his shoulders as easily as if it is made of tissue paper. He holds the severed head up by the chinstrap of the helmet, peering at the shocked expression permanently fixed on his victim’s features before he extends his arm, holding it straight out, the head swinging back and forth like a trick or treat pail while he grins maniacally.

Are you watching me, Alexei? Can you see me, my love?

The cracked buckle suddenly snaps and the head thuds unceremoniously into the earth. Well, it was amusing while it lasted. He kicks it away, watching as it disappears into the cornstalks nearby, one of the stray mutts easily dodging the gruesome item, then darting back towards it to sniff curiously. He smiles fondly at the beast, watching its fellows cavort nearby. Perhaps he’s going to feed the poor starving creatures with his gifts instead, a far better use of resources. He crouches down and reaches out a hand towards them, but the dogs merely watch him, keeping a wary distance as they nose about the broken bodies he’s left lying around.

The grin slowly fades. He remembers another time spent in the fields, in the wooded area beyond them, sitting on the tailgate of the married man’s pickup truck, eating pizza, then wading in the river and later cuddling on a blanket on its banks. He’d seen a future for them, then; back when the sun was still friendly and he spent his days maintaining financial records and some few, precious evenings in the arms of the man he’d begun falling in love with.

What a fool he had been.

///Before///

Payphones are starting to become a thing of the past, but still readily available in smaller areas like the one Alexei lives in, and he’s grateful for that fact now, Dmitry’s business card tucked securely into his palm after he parks in a shopping plaza and walks towards the booth. One day he’ll probably be forced to invest in a cell phone, but for now, it seems like a luxury that’s not really necessary.

He lifts the receiver, a loud dial tone greeting him before he drops a couple of coins into the slot, then punches in the sequence of numbers and rests a hand on top of the case sheltering the phone. It rings twice and then a familiar voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Dmitry. It’s Alexei. From the bar.”

“Alexei from the bar. This is a surprise.”

“A good one, I hope.”

“Of course. Where are you calling me from? The line sounds a little odd.”

“Payphone downtown. Listen, I’m out doing errands. Boring shit, but I thought maybe you’d like to tag along. We can grab lunch afterwards. If you’ve got stuff to do, I totally understand.” He’s gripping the receiver so tightly he can hear the plastic creaking in protest. Please say yes. Please.

“Sure, I’d love to go. Let me give you directions to my apartment.”

He scribbles them down on the back of a faded receipt he’d grabbed along with a pen from the compartment on the inside of the truck’s door. Ten minutes later he arrives at a modern style multistory building, feeling a little out of place just walking through the lobby and riding inside the elevator. He’s wearing faded jeans and an old tshirt and hoodie and the work boots he basically lives in year round. The entire place looks and smells expensive, all shiny metal fixtures and fresh paint and recently laid Berber carpeting.

He locates the correct apartment number and knocks on the door. His stomach is doing that fluttery thing again, his palms damp. Nervous. Excited. Somewhere between the two.

The door opens.

“Good morning,” the dark haired man greets him. There’s that beautiful smile. God, how can he be so addicted already?

“Hi.” At least he hadn’t said howdy this time.

“Want to come in for a minute? I’m almost ready.”

“Sure, thanks.”

Dmitry steps back and he moves forward, closing the door behind him. “This place looks really nice. And expensive,” he murmurs, following the other man into the living room.

“Honestly, you’re wise to invest in a home. Paying rent is just throwing money away. I seriously need to start properly hunting.”

“I’ll go with you, if you want.”

“That would be great. I’ll confess I’m a little lacking in the finer details about what to look for and what to avoid when it comes to purchasing a home.”

The younger man sits on the couch, a cream microfiber piece that looks a lot more comfortable than the dilapidated hand-me-down at Alexei’s own home. “Have a seat.” He gestures to the cushion beside him and the other man accepts the invitation, confirming that it is indeed much more plush than what he’s used to.

Dmitry leans forward, adjusting the back heel of the shoe he’s just slid one foot into, then begins tying the laces. He’s dressed casually today, in dark rinse denim jeans that are not faded and ripped like his own and a long sleeve v neck tee the color of an overcast sky.

“So what stores are on the itinerary for today?”

“Uh, the hardware store is first on the list. Need to get some lumber. I’m fixing up the front porch.”

“A carpenter too, hmm? Useful skills to have.” He finishes tying the first shoe and begins on the second. “And then what?”

“And then lunch. Your choice. Oh, and the video rental store.”

“Are we getting a movie?”

“Yes. Well…not for us. For…” He hesitates.

Dmitry smiles gently. “It’s okay. You can say her name.”

“I’d rather not. I’m sorry if that comes across as rude. I just…I don’t know, it feels wrong.” Because saying your wife’s name out loud is the most improper thing you’re doing, right?

The taller man straightens after finishing his task, reclining back against the couch. He looks relaxed, unperturbed by Alexei’s request, simply nodding. “Did you get in trouble last night for being late?”

“No, I didn’t, actually. She was in a good mood. I told her about you, as a matter of fact.”

“Did you?” One eyebrow lifts.

“Well, not about that, obviously. Just general stuff. Demographic details, that sort of thing. Anyway, she’s spending the day at her sister’s, so we’ve got plenty of time.”

“Even though you have a porch to rebuild?”

“It’s not the entire structure that needs work, just a few pieces. The lattice has to be replaced completely, but that’s not a big deal. I am going to make some custom flower boxes, though.”

“I like flowers. Plants in general.”

“I can’t be trusted around any. Ironic, when I live in the middle of farm country.” He rests an arm across the back of the couch. “What else do you like besides plants? Hobbies?”

“Books. Mysteries. Poetry. Crossword puzzles. Regular puzzles too, actually. Card games. Dining out. Nature trails. I sound like an elderly person, don’t I? I suppose none of this is terribly interesting.” He rakes a hand through his ebony tresses.

Alexei shakes his head. “You’re an intellectual. And you’re as far from elderly as they come.” He pauses. “You really don’t mind going shopping?”

“Not at all.”

He moistens his lips, stalling before confessing his next words. “I couldn't wait until Friday to see you again,” he admits. “I was wracking my brain for an excuse.”

“Wanting to see me is enough of one.”

“Is it?” The hand resting behind his companion lifts and he grasps the nape of his neck, his thumb sweeping back and forth. “I don’t know what’s okay and what’s not. The rules…”

“We decide what they are together, as we go along.” He rests a hand midway along his guest’s thigh. “I’m glad you called. I wasn’t sure…”

“Are you kidding me? I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened,” Alexei says, his voice husky. He’s very curious to see where that hand on his leg will move next.

“Neither could I.”

He reaches for Dmitry’s cheek, leaning to rest his forehead along his, still not quite confident enough to kiss him, even though he’s wanted to from the moment he’d stepped over the threshold. “I don’t know what you see in me, to be perfectly honest. I was trying to figure it out in bed all last night. All morning while I was getting ready. I’m not sure what I have to even offer someone like you. You have everything going for you. A good paying career. A nice place to live, rented or not. A decent car. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“So do you. You’re making it sound like you have one foot in the grave.” He covers the hand cradling his face so that they hold him together.

“I’m thirty five,” Alexei says, internally wincing at this admission. “Going on thirty six.”

“So? A decade age gap isn’t that much.”

“I tried telling myself last night might be a one time, casual thing. Just…placing that idea down. Trying to get used to it being there, like when you’re moving new furniture around until you get the balance in the room just right.”

“And?”

He sighs heavily. “I couldn’t do it. It was simply impossible to conceive of no matter how much I nudged it around and looked at it from every angle. I want you, Dmitry,” he says. “I want to know everything about you. I know you initially said you thought maybe it was better the less we knew about each other, and last night was spontaneous and sexy and amazing, but…”

“But?” He prompts gently.

Alexei draws back to study his features. “I want more than that. Need more than that. And I need to know you want that, too. I know how great of an ask that is. It means sharing me with someone else. It means sneaking around and lying and working around whatever moments I can set aside for us. But I also know any guilt I might feel can’t compare to how much I want to try for this. How much I hope you want to as well.”

”You’ve been giving this some serious thought.”

”Yeah, I have.”

“It appears we’re on the same page, then.”

The older man exhales a shuddering breath, finally succumbing to the desire that’s been haunting him, his mouth capturing his lover’s lips. Today there are hints of morning flavors lingering there, coffee and mint toothpaste. Dmitry squeezes his thigh and his own hand drops from his face to his waist, shoving beneath the hem of his shirt to grasp the soft roll of flesh there.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes against his cheek, caressing the expanse of skin beneath that slate gray fabric, the pillowy abdomen and padded ribs and the gentle mounds beneath nipples that stiffen when he brushes his fingertips against them.

“Alexei.”

There it is, that sound he’s been craving, hot enough to melt his doubts and insecurities, emboldening his next touch to descend, down, down, down to the fly of his new partner’s jeans. He slides off the couch, kneeling on the plush carpet, shoving the younger man’s knees apart with his hips while gripping the belt loops of his pants and jerking him closer to his own crotch, his buttocks now teetering on the edge of his seat.

Dmitry’s mouth is back at his throat, wet and hot and sucking, perhaps too hard, perhaps creating more hickeys, and he considers issuing a warning for the most fleeting of moments before disregarding it. Let him mark his flesh; let him be branded and wear that symbol of possession like the one on his ring finger linking him to another. No, not now, don’t think about her, not when you’ve got him in your arms…

It’s the younger man’s clever fingers that manage to wrap around both of their now exposed cocks, pairing them together, sliding firm heat against firm heat. Alexei’s eyes roll back as he sucks Dmitry’s tongue. Plush thighs grip his waist and hips. He fucks against the slick palm, against digits coated in both of their precum, along the length of that uncut cock fat and throbbing beside his own. He’d very nearly masturbated in the shower to take the edge off earlier that morning but had managed to resist, glad now that he’s saved the full load boiling in his balls for this moment.

“Fuck, that’s so hot, I’m gonna come…Dmitry, please—”

His orgasm hits hard, his cock spewing molten fluid over the other man’s fingers and prick. The dark haired man’s head dips forward, watching the erotic spill and adding his own to the mix, moaning Alexei’s name.

“Fuck,” the kneeling man curses again as the hot liquid spatters onto his skin and jets onto his jacket. They really need to start undressing before they have sex. He chuckles softly against the head bowed beneath his lips, then plants a kiss there.

Dmitry’s head lifts, blown pupils meeting his own. His cheeks are flushed and there’s perspiration beading his brow. He returns the smile Alexei offers, slow and sweet. “Did I mention I also like taking baths?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I mean actual baths. Not that I mind this,” he murmurs, bringing his fingers to his lips to suck them clean.

A nervous laugh huffs from Alexei at the display. He can’t possibly be enjoying the taste, but it looks so…

He suddenly leans forward, grabbing the seated man’s wrist to lap at the streak of cum painted there. The skin on the inside surface is so thin, nearly translucent, like rice paper laid over branches of cobalt vessels. The flat of his tongue presses against his pulse, finding it still bounding fast and hard.

Dmitry sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh…”

“Am I invited into the bath?” Alexei asks coyly.

“Yes,” he rasps.

“Good.” He plants a final kiss on his wrist before standing. “Lead the way.”

///After///

The knock on the door is different from the others Alexei has heard all evening.

This one has a distinct musical touch, a familiarity that speaks of codes, of secrets, of hidden smiles and stolen kisses.

The homeowner steps forward with trepidation, already knowing what ghastly thing is waiting for him as he peers into the peephole.

“Howdy,” the pale visitor greets cheerfully.

The man indoors looks away quickly, the mimicked greeting a mocking reminder of their very first encounter at the bar, when they’d both still been human. He’s been trying desperately to convince himself that the lanky, lean figure he’d seen outside his bedroom window and prowling near his house had been someone else, but there is no longer any chance of denial when the seven foot tall evidence to the contrary is standing directly in front of him.

“I’m not letting you in.” The words are firmly uttered, each one bitten off sharply.

“Oh, why not?” The question sounds almost coquettish. He knows that tone; knows how it sounds to have his former lover cajole and plea and beg, wheedling until he gets what he wants. It’s a little game they’ve played dozens of times.

“There are people in here that I’m protecting.”

“People,” the super visitor repeats, his upper lip curling in disgust. “Have you suddenly become a social butterfly? What a strange world we exist in now.” He rests a hand against the door. “Seems sturdy. But I don’t think that will prove much of an obstacle. Not anymore,” he adds ominously.

“You can’t come in here.” Now the words sound less certain. Almost pleading. His turn to whine and beg. Well, he’s no stranger to that, God only knows. The Man Upstairs has clearly gotten fed up with him; why else would he subject him to this torment that feels particularly branded to his own discomforts? First surrounded by strangers, now forced to face the monstrosity that his former lover has evolved into.

“No, I won’t come inside tonight. Another time when your abode isn’t so…crowded.” He removes his hand and Alexei can feel it, the release of that terrible, pressing weight testing his defenses.

“What happened to you?” This said so softly the words barely penetrate the wooden barrier between them.

“What do you think happened? I asked for shelter. Begged, even. And was rejected. Cast aside. Left to burn. To die. To reawaken as this,” he says, spreading his hands and gesturing to himself. “I always wanted to lose weight, and now it seems I’ve succeeded at last.” He chuckles bitterly.

“You didn’t need to. You were perfect.”

“Was I? Not perfect enough, apparently.”

“Stop it!” The homeowner grabs the gun tucked into the corner beside the door. “Stop talking. You’re not him. You’re not the man that I…”

“The man that you what? That you fucked when it was convenient?”

He winces, the words stinging like a slap. “The man that I—”

“—You still can’t say it, can you? Even now.”

His shoulders droop in defeat. “That’s not fair. You know how I felt.”

“Oh, yes. You made it abundantly clear where your priorities were. You lured me with lies and false promises. Told me you wanted more. Then when I gave everything to you, you used what you wanted and discarded the rest. You had no intention of ever leaving her; you only earned your freedom when she did the task for you. You had no intention of building a life with me. Every talk of the future, our future, was a lie, so do not speak to me of what is unfair. I was always yours, but you were never mine.”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear any more. I have a gun,” he adds, now stepping back so he can aim it properly towards the door.

“Ah. And so despair gives courage to the coward. You are such a coward. How easy it is to blame others for your own insecurities. Your faith is a crutch. Your marriage was a ready excuse when you needed it to be. The eyes of society never judged us as harshly as you yourself did.”

“If you think so little of me, why have you come back?”

“Because I have plans for you. For us. Don’t worry; I don’t expect a sweeping romance this time around. I have something much different in mind.” He touches the door again, stroking down the wood grain as tenderly as if caressing his former lover’s face. “Did you see the gifts I left for you in the yard? The fields? I still have manners; a guest should not arrive empty handed.”

“I don’t want your gifts. You’re not a guest, you’re a monster.”

“I am what the world has made me. What you created, Alexei.” He runs his tongue over the top row of his teeth. “Are you aiming that gun at me right now? Your father’s rifle, the one he took when he taught you how to hunt? Did he teach you what happens when you corner prey? When the prey becomes the hunter instead?”

“I said shut up! Don’t you dare talk about him. About the things I confided…just shut up right now or I’ll make you—”

“—You already killed me once. Are you so eager to do it again?”

The firearm wavers as the homeowner frowns, confused. “I never…”

“You destroyed me before the sun ever took me,” the tall figure replies. “I loved you. I would have done anything to make you happy.”

“Dmitry…” Silence. Then a choked sob.

The pale visitor who was once a man opens his eyes to find a canopy of stars above him, a flimsy cushion of overgrown grass cradling his recently transformed body.

His first breaths are slow, stuttering like a troubled car engine attempting to turn over until at last a steady rhythm is reclaimed. His heartbeat is equally sluggish, a stumbling lurch of a pulse to shift his cooling blood while he attempts to move his limbs, the pain of flexing muscles that have stiffened making him gasp.

It takes a great deal of time for him to acclimatize to this brutal reawakening, for the rigid framework of his body to once again move smoothly. Even once he’s able to stand and walk, things do not feel quite right; he can sense the wrongness of his flesh, stretched too thin over his skeleton, bones that once were concealed with a modest layer of padding, particularly around his waist, now absent; the face that was round and boyish now gaunt, all high cheekbones and sharp jaw and wicked teeth.

When he’d been human, normal, a different kind of alive, he’d been polite, soft spoken, kind.

Now a different motive fills him. There is no thought of morals, of goodness, of humanity. Humanity had failed him when he’d needed it most.

Revenge is what drives him now. Not hatred; he cannot express that emotion even now, even after his lover’s betrayal. But he can haunt him, torment him until the time is right, until he can pull him into the sun and let them both be immolated, until there is no longer even ash to remember the abomination and his former paramour by.

///Before///

The man is two beers in when he notices the fellow at the other end of the bar, the tall one with the rosy cheeks and raven hair who’s drinking something a cheerful shade of pink, some sort of cocktail with lots of ice.

There’s a newspaper resting on the counter in front of the other patron, something that his long fingers pluck at from time to time to flip the page. He saws at the nape of his neck as he reads, squirming on the stool a bit until his eyes slide over to meet his. The corner of the other man’s mouth tugs up, a crooked grin that seems friendly and feels like an invitation.

The stubble cheeked observer quickly looks away, declining that offer. His fingers twitch over the matchbook resting near his beer bottle. He’d promised his wife he’d be home in an hour, and nearly half that time is gone already. She already disapproves of the drinking and the smoking as it is; to add lateness to the mix is a sure-fire way to encourage another argument, and he doesn’t have the energy for that tonight. It’s been a long week. A lot of visits to homes to clean and repair and install furnaces. Blue collar, honest work, just like his father had done. He notices the oil still caked in the creases of his knuckles and around the nailbeds as he flips the matchbook over, the logo of the bar he’s sitting in revealed, an illustration of a beer mug topped with a generous dollop of foam beside the name.

He signals for another bottle, crooking his finger at the bartender when he returns.

“Hey, listen. What’s that guy over there drinking?” He asks in a hushed tone.

“Sea Breeze.”

The patron makes a disgusted face and the man behind the counter chuckles softly. “Yeah, wouldn’t be my first choice either.”

“Is he even old enough to drink?”

“Yeah, I carded him. Just has a baby face.”

“Or a fake ID,” the other man mutters. “You ever see him around here before?”

The bartender rests his elbows on the varnished surface of the counter, subtly adjusting the rag draped over one shoulder with practiced ease as he leans forward. “Look, buddy, a lot of people come through here, you know? Why don’t you go strike up a conversation and find out yourself if you’re that curious?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He waves a hand dismissively and the employee grunts, stepping back. He takes a deep swig from the fresh bottle before dragging the back of his wrist across his lips, trying to make his next glance in the dark haired man’s direction appear surreptitious.

He’s looking at him again. Same little half smile as before. It really is quite charming. Shit.

The television mounted high on the wall in front of him is currently set to broadcast the news. He stares at it without seeing, willing the warmth pooling in his groin to disperse. He can control these types of feelings; he’s done it before. He just needs to distract himself. More alcohol. A smoke. He could move to a booth, remove the temptation perching nearby from the equation entirely.

He could do any of these things, but he doesn’t. Sliding off the barstool, he gathers his things and ambles over to the cocktail drinker. He doesn’t ask for permission, just settles right next to him, work boots hooking on the rungs of the stool while he plunks down his beer and ashtray and book of matches and pack of cigarettes. His fellow patron’s legs are so long his feet rest on the floor, slightly stretched out into what little space is provided. He tries not to let his eyes linger too long on the spread of that generous mileage of thighs, quickly shifting his gaze to the newspaper filling the end of the bar counter.

“Howdy.” The greeting slips from the newcomer’s mouth. Howdy? Since when does he say howdy?

“Evening.” The younger man’s lips twitch, his eyes sparkling. That mouth looks dangerous. Too plush and flushed and ripe. Fuck. This was such a bad idea. Why did he move closer?

“Anything interesting happen that I should know about?” He forces a nods towards the printed text and takes another long swallow of his drink, feigning a casual interest in the reading material. His hasty gulp is messy and the beer leaks from the corner of his mouth, forcing him to scrub at it with the back of his work shirt sleeve, thinking as he does so that his name is embroidered on the chest pocket, announcing his identity for any observer he comes into contact with. He’s already at a disadvantage here, too tongue tied and embarrassed by the desire pooling in his mouth. He’s not going to ask for this man’s name. He doesn’t need to know it.

“The usual. Our local sports team lost. Crime is rising. Climate concerns. Oh, and there’s a sale on bread this week.”

“Good to know. Want one?” He reaches for the pack of cigarettes and taps it against his palm, helping the tobacco settle before he slips open the top of the box, holding it out towards his companion.

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“This gonna bother you, then?” He ceases removing one of the chemical laced rolls from the box, keeping the edge trapped between his thumb and index finger while he waits for a response.

“No. You’re allowed to smoke.” He runs the edge of his index finger along the rim of his glass, then lets it slide down the condensation gathering around the outside. The man has the most elegant hands he’s ever seen. Perfectly manicured, cuticles trimmed, nails even and filed smooth. The skin around his own is torn and jagged. His nails usually trap a layer of grime from his occupation, the stubborn crescents of dirt lingering.

“That wasn’t the question. I wasn’t asking if it was allowed. I was asking if you minded.”

“No, I don’t.”

He grunts an acknowledgment, slotting the cigarette between his lips, then retrieves the book of matches. The strip of red phosphorus on the outside flap is well worn, the book itself nearly empty, and it takes him several tries before the match tip finally lights. He ignites the end of the cigarette and then waves the match in the air until the flame is extinguished, a small curl of white smoke trailing in its wake as he drops it into the ashtray.

Still feeling a little uncertain of how comfortable his fellow patron actually is with his habit, he makes sure to divert his exhaled streams of smoke to the side, turning his face away. Every time he looks back he’s got those doe eyes waiting, dark chocolate with thick fringes of lashes. The kind you can get lost in. Drown in, even.

“So, did you just get out of work?” His gaze shifts to the neat button front shirt, the silk tie that his companion is wearing. His own shirts are ironed by his wife, but they’re rumpled and soiled by midday.

The smooth cheeked man nods, stirring the remains of his beverage with the straw. “Yes. Accounting,” he offers, anticipating the next query. “You?”

“HVAC tech.”

“Ah.” His eyes flick to the gold band adorning his ring finger. “Married, I see.”

“Yeah.” His thumb nudges the underside of the snug bit of metal and a little twinge of guilt stirs his stomach, disrupting the fluttery feeling he’s been having since he’s first spied the other gentleman. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should finish his drink and go home.

“How’s that going for you?”

“It’s great,” he declares with false cheerfulness, saluting with the bottle, then taking another drink before sighing. “That’s a lie. It’s…I kind of feel like we need a change. We’ve talked about having kids, but…” He doesn’t know why he’s talking about this. He doesn’t want to talk about this, especially not with a stranger at the bar.

“You don’t want any?”

“No, I do. I just…I don’t know. Not now. It just doesn’t seem like the right time.” He takes another sip of his beverage, tapping the end of his cigarette over the nearby ashtray. “What about you? Married? Kids?”

“I’m single.”

It’s pathetic how pleased he is by this information. He very nearly hums at that response, taking another hasty drag while he glances around the bar. It’s starting to get more crowded. The sky visible through the glass front of the establishment is darkening. He should be heading home in a few minutes. Traffic is going to be congested. If he leaves now he’ll make it in time.

“So what’s in that drink, anyway?” He knows, but he inquires anyway. A safe substitution for something he’d really like to know, like what aftershave he uses that still smells so clean and fresh after an entire workday; what that mouth might taste like, loose and hot and wet beneath his own with their bodies wrapped around each other in the alley outside.

The tall man lifts the glass and the ice cubes rattle against the sides, cutting through the forbidden imagery he’s just indulged in. “Cranberry juice, grapefruit juice, and vodka.”

He grimaces, more from disgust over his lust than the ingredients themselves. “Maybe tolerable without the grapefruit,” he grumbles.

“I’ve never had one before. I always pick something new when I go out. It’s not bad, honestly. Better than your piss water,” he adds, smirking. Oh. Those damn lips look so good. He wants to suck on them and bite them. He wants to…

“Piss water?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “This is the best beer there is.” A perfect comeback. Completely ordinary topics two guys might discuss over drinks. Nothing else going on here. Definitely not thinking about inventing an excuse to visit his office after hours and bend him over the desk, plowing into what looks to be a plump ass from what he can see arching over the bar stool.

Jesus. His work trousers are starting to feel tight.

“According to you.”

“Hmph.” He exhales a cloud of smoke, forgetting to turn his face, or perhaps unwilling to look away. It frames the soft features in a hazy layer that reflects the yellow tinged bar lights.

“Does she know?”

The question is quietly uttered, but the technician’s head jerks sharply left and right to ascertain if they’ve been overheard before he speaks in a hushed tone. “Does who know what?”

One sculpted eyebrow lifts. “Your wife. This.” He waves a hand in the air between them.

“She knows I’m at the bar, yes.”

The smile he’s offered this time seems almost sad. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” He picks at one corner of the paper wrapper glued to the side of the beer bottle, focusing intently on his task. A warm hand settles on his thigh and he nearly jumps off the stool, cursing under his breath as he glances around anxiously again, his knee jerking to shake off the touch while he ignores the look the bartender shoots him from the other end of the bar, where he’s just begun serving two other patrons. “What the hell are you doing?” He hisses.

If he’d thought the other man’s cheeks were pink before, they were absolutely scarlet now. “Sorry. I thought…”

“No. You thought wrong. I’m not…that,” he finishes, taking one last pull from his cigarette before he jabs the butt in the base of the ashtray, angrily grinding it down, as if by doing so he can somehow destroy the lie he’s just spoken and obliterate the feeling of guilt that drags against him, that same one that’s always smothered and suffocated him, trapping him like undertow, years of Catholicism weighing him down. Shame makes the dregs of beer still coating his tongue sour. He digs around in his pocket for his wallet, extracting several bills from the weathered imitation leather accessory and tossing them on the counter. Even these look unkempt, the money torn and rumpled, as worn as the rest of him, as weary as what he’s struggling with internally. He doesn’t belong here. Especially not with this man who looks so put together, so polished and charming and comfortable. He envies not so much his income or higher class lifestyle but that sincerity, so raw in its offering. His freedom.

The techinician’s shoes thud on the floor as he stands, shoving the cigarettes and matches back in his shirt pocket. He’s not really buzzed, but his legs still feel unsteady. There’s a tight, fluttery feeling in his chest. He hesitates, his body still half turned towards the other patron. “No, she doesn’t know. And I’ve never…How did you know?” He asks quietly.

“Because there aren’t too many things people stare at like that. Money is one of them,” he murmurs, withdrawing his own billfold, smooth and dark like his hair, before placing currency on the counter that’s crisp, appearing as if it’s been freshly printed.

“Like what?” There’s a kind of rapt fascination buried in that query, the eagerness for the answer making him lean slightly, grasping the edge of the counter.

“Wanting,” he replies. “Wanting more than anything.”

He’s obsessed with that voice already. He thinks he could listen to it for hours; wonders how it would be to experience it beside his ear, whispering flattery and praise and filth.

Oh you’ve fallen so, so far tonight. You’re going to have a long list to present to the parish priest on Sunday. You’ll be saying the rosary for weeks just to make up for tonight’s transgressions alone.

“We don’t even know each other,” he murmurs aloud.

“Maybe that makes it better.”

His grip on the varnished edge becomes white knuckled. He wants to touch the other man so bad it actually hurts. “I have to get home,” he rasps, a reminder to himself as much as a parting declaration.

“Alright. Thank you for keeping me company.” The accountant folds the newspaper, seemingly unperturbed by the rejection he’s just received. He’s so calm; how is he so calm? His own insides are churning, hot and frantic, like writhing cables with live wire ends.

Hands jammed deeply now into his pockets, the shorter man tries to find an excuse to linger a little longer. Something is telling him this is a once in a lifetime meeting. It’s now or never. Last chance.

Leave. Leave and never come back. Don’t keep looking at him. Don’t say another word. Go home and take a shower and eat dinner with your wife and crash on that sagging plaid couch in the living room, the same thing you do every evening.

“Where are you parked?” He blinks, as if surprised to find himself still anchored to the same spot, still interacting with the other man.

“Out back. Why?”

“I’ll walk with you. It’s not the best neighborhood, you know. Safety in numbers.” He gives a nervous smile and gestures for the younger man to move first, trailing a little behind him as they exit the bar.

The temperature has dropped notably since he’d been inside the building, but he finds the cooler air refreshing. It’s exactly what he needs to clear his thoughts, sobering and brisk. He has no idea what’s going to happen next; no plans beyond escorting his new acquaintance to his vehicle. Once that task is complete, he’ll be cleared of all obligations. He can finally go home.

His pace slackens at the prospect. It’s not what he wants.

It’s a modest sized sedan he’s led to, neither exorbitantly expensive nor cheap. He drives his dad’s old pickup truck, a rusty relic with a large flatbed and lots of mileage.

“Well, thanks again. Drive home safely.” The accountant inserts his key into the lock, providing him the perfect moment to depart. This is it. His chance to escape.

He reaches out and closes his hand over the other man’s wrist. “Wait.”

Someone else in the parking lot laughs, an echoing sound that’s shrill and intoxicated. Once again he tosses a panicked look around, but the other patron is not in their immediate vicinity.

“You’re not ready for this yet.” It’s not accusing, merely a statement.

“No, I am, I just…where…where would we go?” He shuffles his feet, the soles of his work boots scraping the scattered gravel littering the pavement.

“I can drive us to my place.”

He licks his lips at this offer. Tempting, but too much for his first time. He can’t push himself across that hurdle just yet. “Can we just…can we just find somewhere quiet that’s not too far away?”

“Sure. Hop in.” He turns the key in the lock and the techinician hurries to the passenger side, waiting for the driver to slip behind the wheel and lean over to unlock his door.

The car’s engine is quiet, smooth. They exit the parking lot and enter another a few blocks away, one situated behind an abandoned strip mall. The lot is overgrown, nearly choked with weeds that provide additional privacy. The car is parked at the far end, well away from the street and its accusing lamps, the headlights winking out as the ignition is turned off.

For a time the pair sit in silence, each peering through the windows at their dark surroundings, seemingly lost in thought, waiting for one to begin this new interlude.

“Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine.” He fidgets with one shirtsleeve, pulling it further forward over his wrist.

He hears the lean before it happens: the creak of vinyl as the man behind the wheel shifts closer to him. Their noses bump and he feels hot breath ghost his lips, quickly turning his face so that the forthcoming kiss lands on his cheek instead. “Sorry, I just…not on the lips.” As if that will make a difference. As if his wife will find that any less disrespectful; as if the Lord above would find him any less of a sinner.

If the other man is offended by this, he doesn’t show it, moving his mouth down to his jaw, and a nervous sigh escapes his lips at the pleasure of that caress. He’s become used to the quick, brisk pecks his wife offers lately. They’re nothing like these ones, hot and moist and eager, exploring and pressing now against his throat, one hand sinking into his close cropped brown hair and gently tugging his head back for better access as he laps at his skin. He was already half hard before despite his anxiety and the booze, and these kisses finish the job, his cock straining against the seam along the crotch of his navy cargo pants.

He actually whimpers when those pretty fingers he’d admired earlier curl around that bulge, kneading him through the fabric before slipping his belt free of the buckle. His hips lift, providing some slack so the button of his fly slides through the loop a little easier, the zipper parting soon after.

“Oh…” He moans when the waistband of his boxer briefs are tugged and shoved down over his erection. The precum leaking from the tip smears over the head with the sweep of one thumb, spreading the lubricant down over the frenulum. His hips arch again and he hisses. It’s been months since he’s been intimate with his wife; a good couple of weeks since he’s taken the edge off and emptied his seed against the wall of the shower, a quick task nestled amidst the others that he performs before work every morning.

The dark haired man’s head lifts, his mouth already looking swollen, chafed from the stubble lining the face he’s just been kissing and licking and nuzzling against. He abandons fondling his cock just long enough to reach for the seat lever so it reclines backward and the technician’s body drops, now resting supine. Then the accountant moves again, somehow folding his torso over just enough, bringing those flushed lips to the needy, aroused flesh.

“Hnnngh.” An unintelligible sound punches from his lungs. His new lover wastes no time in engulfing him fully, sliding down his length until he reaches the root with its bush of pubic hair. He allows him to suck without direction for a few moments before resting his hand on his head, his fingers sinking into the silky, sooty tresses. It’s sloppy wet and he’s deep and it’s good, so good. The realization of the difference between receiving it as a courtesy and receiving it because one sincerely wants to do it is as shocking as a cold shower. The performing man’s hand reaches blindly to touch his face, curving around his throat and jaw, his thumb splitting his lips. He sucks on that offering, and it mirrors what’s happening below. He moans and is answered in kind. The pace quickens. His breathing saws frantically, a hint of a wheeze mingling there. Damn smoker’s lungs. He knows he should quit. But he just can’t seem to stop…

“Oh, fuck, I’m close.” He might be embarrassed at how quick his climax has crept up under different circumstances, but considering what he’s doing and where he’s doing it and who he’s doing it with, well, he can forgive himself a shortened endurance. It’s impossible to hold back with that smooth, wet heat wrapped around his length, with the lewd sounds that echo inside the car when his prick reaches the back of the younger man’s throat, when he gargles and gulps and withdraws, nostrils flaring before dragging the flat of his tongue over his cock while his eyes lift to find his, smoldering like bits of coal shining in the dark interior of the vehicle.

That look drives him over the edge; that and the trademark smirk before his mouth engulfs him again. He relaxes his grip on the head bobbing over his cock, giving him another opportunity to move, but the man remains in place, swallowing around the load suddenly pulsing into his mouth. He arches back against the cradle of the headrest, his vision momentarily blacking out. “Jesus Christ,” he pants, now watching those gorgeous eyes and sinful mouth make their reappearance. “That was…”

“Good?”

“Fucking hell, yes.” He chuckles, enjoying the tingling sensation still firing down his thighs. “You’re really pretty, you know? Handsome. Whatever,” he finishes awkwardly, trying to rake the mussed ebony locks back into some semblance of tidiness.

“Either. I accept the compliment.”

Another smile curves his lips. For some reason the urge to grin keeps flowing through him, now that some of the tension has eased. “So what now? You need me to help you—”

“—No rush. Is there a rush?” The man regards him, head tilting to one side.

He doesn’t answer, instead curling his fingers around the nape of his neck and tugging lightly. “C’mere.”

He obeys, slightly leaning against the length of his reclined body as his face draws closer. “You want to cuddle?” He teases.

“It’s going to taste like ash when I kiss you,” he murmurs.

“It’s going to taste like jizz when I kiss you,” he returns.

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Well, fuck it. Let’s get it over with then.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

The first touch of his lips is chaste, brief, just a cursory brush to try the sensation out. Then the fingers still teasing the back of his neck press more insistently and his mouth parts, his tongue bravely nudging forward. He does indeed taste like cum, an acrid sample of himself he’d only experimented with as a youth once. But there’s more buried there. That shitty drink he’d imbibed at the bar. Sour and sweet. He indulges in his earlier fantasy, sucking the generous wedge of his bottom lip, savoring the sound that emerges behind it. He peppers kisses along the soft curve of his chin, then searches for his throat. The scent of his aftershave is so heavy he thinks it’s permanently embedded inside his nostrils. He’ll get a hardon every time he smells this fragrance now, remembering the events of this evening.

“You do this with a lot of guys?” He pants, running a hand down his shirtfront and winding his tie around his fist, giving it a playful jerk.

“Don’t ask me that when I’m kissing you.” There’s a sharp edge to his tone, a new aggressive sound he hasn’t heard yet.

“Okay,” he says quickly, his thumb stroking over the smooth curve of his cheek to try to soothe his new partner. “I’m new at this. I’m still learning.”

“It’s got nothing to do with gender. It’s about being decent. Courteous. I’m sure you wouldn’t be too keen on me mentioning your spouse right now.”

“Yeah.” The twinge of guilt disturbs his gut again. “Yeah, I don’t want to talk about her right now. I’m sorry.” His eyes flick to the windows now fogged with a coat of condensation as his grip on the tie relaxes, the fabric unwinding.

“I might be persuaded to forgive you,” he replies, sounding mollified. “Let’s see about these working man’s hands. Calloused,” he observes, lining their palms up, his longer fingers curling down to stroke the roughened pads of his fingertips.

“Well, we can’t all have cushy desk jobs.” He takes the initiative to begin working on opening his fly, surprising them both.

“You sure you’re ready for that?”

“I think I can manage to jerk off a dick. I’ve done it a few times before. For myself, I mean,” he corrects hurriedly, the confidence that he’s been steadily building suddenly evaporating.

He’s rewarded with another of those secret smiles, and then he feels what his companion is packing. Uncircumcised. Shorter, but thicker than his own cock. Wilted a bit. He captures his mouth, restoking the fire.

“Oh…mmmph…” It seems another person loses his words as well in the height of passion. The lazy flick of his wrist becomes more purposeful as the cock in his hand swells.

“There you go,” he encourages as the man begins to grind against his hand before spearing his mouth with his tongue. His lover moans against it, the thrust of his hips becoming sharper, more impatient snaps. “So fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs, licking the curve of his ear. The man shivers against him. “I want to feel you come undone.” His hand pumps faster, rolling the skin back and forth. Saliva pools on his tongue and he spits it onto his fingers, quickly coating the throbbing cock pointed towards him.

“Huuuhhh…I’m cumming…” The hems of his work shirt and undershirt are suddenly shoved upward to bare his abdomen, clearing a space for the thrusting man to shoot his load. He tenses and paints several stripes before going still, his face now burrowing into the space between neck and shoulder.

One hand settles on what feels like a love handle, his fingers pressing appreciatively into the soft flesh.

“I need to lose a few pounds. It’s that damn vending machine at work, I—”

“—Don’t you dare. I love this.”

The space inside the car goes quiet as its owner’s breathing slows. “I haven’t…done this with a lot of guys,” he confesses quietly, swiping at the mess he’d made with the edge of his undershirt. “Not the sex or…I’ve never been with a married man.” He sounds vulnerable for the first time that evening.

“Okay.”

The taller man shifts, moving back into his own seat. The passenger fumbles for the seat lever. Both men adjust their clothing, taking turns checking appearances in the rearview mirror.

A stop in the restroom to wash up when they get back to his car probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. “This was nice.” He feels an urge to break the quiet.

“Yes, it was.” Long fingers glide over the arch of the steering wheel. “Maybe we can do this again sometime. It’s okay if not,” he adds hurriedly, shooting his companion a quick glance. “No pressure or expectations.”

“I usually go to the bar every Friday night.”

“I could…start doing that. If you wanted.”

He does.

///After///

The pale visitor knows the address of the man he seeks, and he stands there now, attempting to catch a glimpse of his former lover through the windows of the one story home. Most of them appeared to be covered with curtains or blinds, except…there. In the back. The bedroom.

He steps closer. The lights are off, but to his new eyes, the darkness is nothing. A large bed. Plenty of room for two. He’s surprised when the jealousy flares anew. This is a room he’d always been denied during their clandestine visits, where husband and wife had shared a mattress. Slept beside one another while he’d been alone. Aching.

He rests a palm against the glass. Did the man ever think of him? Wonder what had become of him, in the chaos of this new world?

The bedroom door opens and the sudden pain in the visitor’s chest is more severe than the rigor mortis he’d struggled against earlier.

There is the familiar five o’ clock shadow that had so often scraped his own sensitive skin raw, the smudges that speak of poor sleep beneath his eyes. His frame looks leaner, though it’s difficult to judge properly beneath the drape of the loose turtleneck he’s clad in. Perhaps he’s rationing his food supply. It seems like even the end times can’t keep him from his beloved cigarettes, though, a pack of his favorite brand visibly resting on the nightstand beside the bed.

The man indoors hasn’t noticed his presence yet, switching on the lamp and peeling back the comforter before reaching for the hem of his shirt. It’s then that their eyes finally meet, and for just a brief moment, the visitor thinks perhaps there is still some chance for them after all, a sliver of hope dangling before him. Maybe he doesn’t need revenge after all. Maybe they can simply start anew; hold each other through the darkness, and its newly cursed opposite. He can forgive. Forget, no. But he can grant mercy. Surely it is worth it, for a chance to be in his arms again.

The homeowner’s eyes widen, his lips parting as if to speak, and then he lunges forward, dragging the curtain closed. The blocking movement feels like a slap and he reels backward, staggering like he had when he’d first awoken.

No. There would be no forgiveness here. No redemption. His fingers curl into fists. He’ll come back another time.

Afternoon becomes evening. A touch of frost rimes the fields, turning the grass a hazy shade of sage. The autumn air is thick with the scent of acrid smoke lifting from piles of burning bodies as charred as the remnants of the home nearby recently reduced to blackened wood and ash. Fire in the sky, fire on the ground. As above, so below.

Within the house on the hill, that lone building still miraculously standing unscathed in a sea of destruction, a solitary beacon that beckons as a place of safety each night, a visitor and a human sit beside one another on a worn plaid couch, exchanging frequent glances and touches and kisses, as if to confirm the reality of each other, and this fragile new thing they’re building.

“Finished. It’s ready for you to try on.” You hold up the shirt you’ve just completed mending and the pale visitor slips off the one he’s currently wearing overhead, then reaches for your offering.

You stand, gathering the fabric near the collar to place the opening of the neckline over his head, his hands searching for the armholes. His thumb catches on a seam and he struggles a moment, half inside and half outside of the shirt. You hurry to assist and the garment finally falls into place, first the crown of onyx hair emerging, then the breach of the pale visitor’s face, a distorted visage that he still does not understand how you can bare to look at, let alone kiss, but he’s already far too addicted to your lips to ever consider turning you away.

Your fingers attempt to tame the static-charged flyaway bits of his hair and he aches at the gentleness of your touch; the affection it’s laced with. He keeps all these new pleasant memories close to the surface, refusing to ever let them be forgotten, dropping each treasured one like marbles into a jar, to be eternally seen and secured: the way your feet saw restlessly together as you turn over in bed; the tilt of your head, sparrow-like, as you ruminate over what he’s saying; the laughter that escapes, a rare treasure, at a time when there is so little to find joy in.

“I haven’t had anyone dress me in years,” he mumbles, sounding a little abashed as he tugs on the cuffs of the newly lengthened sleeves. You’ve chosen another material in that same family of azure, shades reminiscent of the ocean and the sea glass it polishes set against his alabaster skin, convinced it is the color he is meant to wear.

“Mmm. But the reverse of that is quite another story,” you hum beside his ear, leaning to adjust the back of his collar.

A nervous huff of laughter escapes him. Flirting. You seem so comfortable with it already, but he’s still skittish, unsure of initiating it. He carefully rests one hand against your hip, toying with the edge of the shirt you’re wearing, a fresh one you’d donned after you’d taken a shower once you’d attempted to console the young girl lodging in the kitchen. You’d reported she’s still withdrawn, so you’re giving her more space for now.

“What did you do with these hands when you worked?” Yours slides over the one grasping you, your teeth catching your bottom lip as you grin at him and gaze through the sooty curtain of your lashes. The look goes straight to his groin. Every glance is kindling; every touch a lit match. Outside it is burning, and inside he is burning, too.

“Ah. A desk job. Selling insurance policies. Very dry stuff. But a steady source of income.” Images from his past career trickle in slowly, drip fed in small doses: his knees bumping the underside of the desk when he shifts to toss something into the wastebin, momentarily forgetting the height of his lengthy limbs; ink perpetually smudging his fingers; the heat of paper just emerging from the printer; a ring of spilled coffee staining a life insurance policy brochure he’d been using as an impromptu coaster.

“How did you get into that line of work?”

A scowl forms on his features. It’s like attempting to find a frequency on that old radio outside the room, many of his past memories still elusive and garbled. “I don’t remember.”

“What about hobbies?”

“I seem to recall being interested in astronomy.” His other hand wraps around your knee, sliding up the back of your thigh. He stops just shy of the curve of your buttocks, content to cradle you here at the present.

“Astronomy? I don’t know anything about the stars.”

“Stars are very important. They tell stories of our past and they guide us to our future destinations. They are the oldest of murals, of maps.”

You smile, soft and secret, fond and tender. “Tell me about them, then.”

“Sit here and I’ll tell you.” He leans back, patting his thighs invitingly and you settle sideways onto his lap, one arm snaking around his shoulders while his arm braces your waist. “I’ll tell you about a summer asterism, commonly visible with the Northern Hemisphere.” His index and middle fingers rest along one of your shoulders as he begins diagramming the constellations over your torso. “The Summer Triangle is formed by the three brightest stars: Vega, Deneb, and Altair.” He runs his fingertips across your collarbones, then diverts down over part of your breast to your navel, then back up the other breast to rest near your opposite shoulder.

You repeat the names back and he nods. “These are part of three well known patterns: Lyra, the harp played by Orpheus to charm even the denizens of the underworld; Aquila, the Eagle who carried Zeus’ thunderbolts; and Cygnus, the swan that Zeus transformed into to seduce Leda, bathing in the river Eurotas.” With each name offered he scribbles another imaginary shape, but this time his fingers slip beneath your shirt, touching your bare skin. His sketches elicit shivers and your fingers dig into him through the shirt you’ve just altered. More heat. He’s overcoming his shyness. He wants to taste you; every supple curve and tempting slope; every peak and crease and that balmy place between your thighs.

Your brows draw down into a frown, your nose wrinkling. “How does a swan seduce a woman?”

“I imagine with quite a bit of preening and honking.” You burst out laughing, your hand lifting to cover you mouth but he captures your wrist and gently pulls it away. “I love your laugh,” he says solemnly. “Let me have it.” The mood shifts again. “I wish I had met you sooner. Before I was this…”

“I’m glad you’re here now.” You press your forehead against his.

He tucks an arm beneath your knees and stands, easily lifting you and carrying you into your bedroom. You’re set down on the edge of the mattress and he kneels, as serious and grave as if he’s about to pray. And it is a kind of worship he’s about to bestow, the way the supplicant slides his hands up your calves and over your thighs, tucking his fingers beneath the waistband of your pajama pants and panties, watching your hands brace your weight, the mattress springs creaking as your palms dig into the bed in search of balance and purchase. You lift your hips up, allowing him to slide the clothing shielding your lower half off of your body.

His mouth goes where his fingers have been, pressing along your spread legs, on the soft skin inside your thighs, teasing your exposed flesh with a breath, with a brief flash of tongue before he begins the work in earnest, arms hooking around your limbs to jerk you closer to the edge, to his mouth, rumpling the sheets beneath you as he paints lines between and around your nether lips, shallowly dipping into the pool of arousal welling at your entrance before bringing the fluids mixed with his saliva back up, spread along the hooded bundle of nerve endings that steadily swells.

It’s exquisite, learning what you enjoy most, an alteration of stiff circles and sharp flicks interspersed with gentler nudges sluicing through the wrinkled folds to create your pleasure. You clap a hand against your mouth, the other threading through his hair, and what starts as an encouraging caress evolves into something needier, your fingers tightening, drawing the charcoal tresses taut as the roots are pulled. He hums against you and you echo the sound, whimpers muffled against the palm you’ve barricaded your mouth with, masking but not entirely hindering the sounds. They grow higher pitched and he knows you’re getting closer to release, all but mashing his face against your pussy. For once he does not mind what he’s evolved into, that unnaturally split maw finally put to good use, working with purpose. He sucks and lavs and your thighs tremor against his cheeks. Your hips buck and he feels it then. There. You’re there, coming apart on his tongue.

“Vysokiy.” He still can’t remember his real name but your gifted one serves just as well; perhaps even better. He swallows the sound of it as he rises, climbing over and pressing you down beneath him, the taste of you shared along your lips and tongue.

He fumbles for the switch of the lamp mounted on the wall above the bed, because he wants to see you: your blown pupils and spit shiny lips and the heightened flush he’s brought to the canvas of your skin. When he settles onto his back your kisses mirror the constellations he’s just taught you, invisible cosmic stipples dusted across shoulders and collarbones and along his ribs. He still struggles not to flinch, to wince, because he persists in the belief that the flesh he offers is so much less appealing than yours, so gaunt and wanting, the structures beneath too transparent, revealing, grotesque, but you fill all those bare places with your lips and he quiets, gentled, shivering only slightly when your mouth finds the sharp crests of each hip. When you finally kiss his cock his head snaps back. He sees the lightbulb, the shade, the pine wall paneling and the ceiling with its popcorn patterns. He shakes as if struck with palsy, your fingers digging into his thighs grounding him, the touch of your hair brushing his pelvis electric. You kiss and lick and swallow him down and when your eyes lift they find his watching you. His fists knot in the sheets and the tendons in his neck stand taut. You’ve started to find a rhythm, your head bobbing smoothly.

“God, just like that, yes—”

He can hear himself inside your mouth, your throat, the wet slide of his hardened flesh, the rhythmic tap as it strikes over and over, the choked sort of gargle when his pelvis arches, driving his erection deeper. Your breath comes fast and hard like his. The reins slip from his grasp; he’s completely lost control. There is time enough for a gasp of pleasure, hardly a proper warning, before he spills into your mouth.

Several beads of his release slip free from your lips, dotting his abdomen, a string of pearls laid neatly in a row like a rosary. Still in the lingering throes of afterglow he wants to say something, but he struggles to find the proper words: Thank you? I’m sorry for how unpleasant that must taste? Is it worse now that he’s not…well…entirely alive? No longer a normal human? Is it even safe? There’s still no concrete evidence of how one becomes a visitor, and—

“Vysokiy,” you murmur, interrupting his tirade of worries. Your head is tilted to one side, regarding him intently as one knuckle wipes at the remnant of his come staining the corner of your mouth. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Sorry, I was just thinking…” He hesitates, not wanting to kill the mood.

“Tell me. Complete honesty, remember?”

“I’m worried about infecting you,” he admits.

You remain silent for a long time. “I think if that was going to happen, it would have already by now. Any close contact, shared body fluids…”

“You can’t know that for certain, though.”

“No, I suppose not. But it’s a little late to worry about it now.” You lie down beside him, resting your head on his chest while he adjusts the flap of his pajamas, subtly swiping at the spill staining his skin. “I don’t regret any of this,” you offer.

“Neither do I. But you have more to lose than I do.” He begins stroking your hair. “You don’t want to become this. Trust me, you don’t.”

“There could still be a cure.”

“And if there isn’t? What then?”

“Then we continue as we are.” You burrow your face against his skin.

“You shouldn’t want me. You shouldn’t want this,” he says softly.

“But I do.” You reach for his hand, drawing it up to rest atop his chest, keeping a tight hold of his fingers. “And you?”

“I’ve wanted you since I saw you in my dreams.”

You make a pleased sound, the noise vibrating through his skin. “You make me happy. I feel safe with you,” you murmur drowsily. “That’s all I want. All I need.”

“I want to court you properly. Bring you gifts. Take you out on dates.” He sighs, a regretful sound. You snuggle closer and he fumbles for the lightswitch overhead. The room goes dark, but it does not share the fearful aura outdoors; this one is cozy, wrapping around the pair of lovers like a plush throw, keeping your secret.

|~~|

FEMA appears several hours later.

The pale visitor spies a group of the yellow hazmat suited individuals through the slats of the blinds covering one of the windows in the hallway, watching warily as the team members disperse into different directions, one of them notably angling towards the house he’s currently occupying.

I should take care of them all permanently, he thinks but dares not voice aloud, glancing at you standing beside him, your hands wringing together nervously. The relaxed intimacy enjoyed earlier has bowed out to make room for this familiar tension, the part of the routine each night he shares your dread for.

“You can’t let them see you. Maybe…” He follows your gaze to the rumpled carpet runner nearby. “You could hide in the cellar until they’re gone.”

He hesitates, reluctantly agreeing only because he doesn’t want you to come to any harm should they discover you’ve been sheltering him. The dusty, cobweb ridden wooden stairs creak alarmingly as he descends, the heavy scent of soil greeting him as he enters the narrow subterranean space lined with shelves. You offer a final harried look before you close the trap door and he finds himself waiting in darkness.

Muffled voices soon filter through the floorboards. The sound of kitchen chairs dragging across the linoleum. Arguing. Then silence. Boots thumping back and forth. Doors opening and closing. He’s halfway back up the stairs, about to burst through the trapdoor, caution and concealment be damned, when you lift it yourself.

“He took her. I couldn’t stop him. I told him no one was here, but he insisted on verifying that claim, forcing his way inside. He searched all the rooms.” There’s a flat, defeated cast to your words.

His eyes widen in alarm and he darts up the remaining steps, making his way toward the front door. “I’ll go after them. They can’t have gotten far. I’ll bring her back.”

“You can’t.” You block the door with your body, wearily sagging against it as if you suddenly lack the strength to stand, the invasion of your privacy and the loss of your young charge utterly draining. “They’ll capture you. They’ll kill you.”

“I’m not such an easy target, remember? And they still don’t know I was here. You’ll be safe.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.”

“Let me at least try.” He reaches for the doorknob, but your hand clamps down on his forearm, surprisingly firm.

“I said no,” you reply through gritted teeth. “No more losses. Not tonight. I can’t take any more tonight.”

“I’ll come back to you. You know I will.”

“No.” You glance towards the nearby window, as if you can see through the curtains to view the burnt husk that had once been your neighbor’s home. “I told him I’d look after her if it ever came down to it. Even after I admitted I had no idea how to take care of a child, he still trusted me.”

“You needn’t fail that promise. Allow me to try.”

“It’s not your responsibility. It’s mine.”

“Consider it acting on your behalf, then.” He frames your face between hands. “Let me do this for you, milaya.” His bends to brush his lips across yours.

“Don’t you do that. Don’t say goodbye to me,” you whisper.

“Until next time, then,” he breathes against your mouth, kissing you fast and hard.

“You aren’t dressed properly. You’ll need supplies. A weapon…”

He follows your gaze to the shotgun tucked beside the door and shakes his head. “I have the only weapons I need.” He holds his hands up, then grins, tapping at one pointed cuspid. “The quicker I leave, the better. They won’t have gained much distance.”

You make an unhappy sound, reluctantly moving away from the door. “I didn’t think they’d go this far. To just barge in…why are they so desperate? The illness must be spreading. They’re panicking, losing control…”

“Lyubimaya,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek, drawing your eyes back to his. “Listen to me. I’ll come back. We’ll come back. I promise you. I’ll make this place safe for all of us.”

“How? Through violence? There’s already too much of it. You’re better than them,” you remind him. “You don’t have to…”

“I’ll do what needs to be done. And whatever that is, it won’t change how I feel about you. I’ll do my best not to hurt anyone if I can help it,” he vows. “You know what to do. Stay vigilant. Keep the gun close just in case. Use your best judgment.”

He embraces you, pressing one last kiss to your mouth before he scans the area through the peephole and then pulls the door open, returning once more to the darkness.

|~~|

It is a difficult thing, hiding when one is so tall.

The pale visitor hunches over as he threads his way among the cornstalks, aiming for the place he’d seen the FEMA team gather earlier. He crouches low once he reaches his destination, his breath clouding the air. There. A lone member on patrol. Precisely what he needs.

He stalks the suited figure for a few moments, ascertaining there are no others around to intervene before he lunges, his elbow hooking around the man’s throat, dragging him down to the ground, his rifle thumping down beside them. The visitor quickly shoves it out of reach, tightening his grip on his enemy’s throat, ignoring the gloved hands frantically clawing at and pummeling his forearm.

Kneeling on the FEMA agent’s chest and arms to keep him pinned down, the visitor rips off the protective visored mask with its built in filter away, immediately clamping a hand down over the struggling prisoner’s mouth. He bends low, his words lower still. “Stop fighting or I’ll gut you right now.”

The man’s eyes widen, his nostrils flaring as he struggles to nod his panicked understanding.

The intruder relaxes his grip slightly, allowing his captive to speak. “Please, don’t hurt me. I have information for you. I…I know you,” he whispers. “They’re looking for you…”

The pale figure glares disdainfully at the pleading man. “Yes, I’ve seen the television broadcasts. Spreading rumors about how dangerous—”

“—No, not because of that,” he interrupts. “There’s another reason they want…anyway, I recognize you. From before, I mean.”

The visitor freezes. “What? What trickery is this?”

He licks his lips, quickly offering an explanation. “No, it’s not a trick, I swear. My cousin worked with you. He talked about you all the time. It’s gotta be you. Brightbridge Insurance, right?”

The words feel like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t been expecting to encounter a piece of the puzzle that is his past, especially from some random FEMA member. The pale figure rocks back slightly, resting his weight on his heels as he surveys the area around them. Still devoid of other officials, but he doubts that will last long.

“We need to move,” he says finally, resisting the urge to tarry and discover more details for now. “Where do they take the ones selected for testing?”

“Three kilometers west of here. There’s a mobile laboratory. For a skinny guy, you’re really heavy,” he grumbles.

The super visitor ignores this remark, pushing himself back to his feet, then holds out a hand to the man on the ground to assist him to stand. He pulls him upright, then retrieves the firearm, hesitating, deliberating if it is better to destroy it or return it to its owner. At last he decides on the latter, handing it back to the man who’s still panting slightly, his sweat dampened hair plastered to his forehead, the topknot a messy nest of tendrils.

”I trust you’re not going to do anything stupid with that,” he growls warningly and his companion nods, slinging the gun back over his shoulder and scanning the field for his discarded headpiece. “We need to get going. There’s no time. Leave it.”