#folklore 2007

You've learned plenty about the Halflives over several weeks of visits and “interviews,” whether they be with Belgae, Ellen, or the rowdy group at the Bridge House.  You've learned that they sometimes have unusual abilities, such as Frizzie’s death premonitions.  You’ve learned that they can move freely between Realms at will, and that sometimes they even lose track of whether they're in Reality or the Netherworld,

“Like when a human doesn't realize they're in a dream,” Fir Darrig, the clothed rat, had explained.  You've learned that they, by and large, possess keen intuitions, and are sensitive to the movements and intersections of the various Realms.  You've even heard stories of their thoughts being rattled by the restlessness of the dead, their memories shouting in a Halflive's head until some matter of great personal importance is resolved.  

Tonight, you are learning about Faery Wine.

It’s easy to see why it’s favored by all of the Halflives at the Bridge House; a brightly sweet and subtly bubbling drink made of fermented sap from the trees of the Faery realm, the wine is quite refreshing and goes down easily.  Probably a bit too easily.  Perched on a stool at the bar and flanked by Jimmy on one side and Belgae on the other, you chat animatedly and present your questions and curiosities as they occur to you, while Ganconer stops by to contribute when he's not otherwise occupied with the constant rotation of patrons approaching the bar for drinks, gossip, or both.  At the moment, the other Halflives are clustered near the fireplace, their voices a harmonious and constant rumble, perhaps devising another barrage of questions for you, even now.  You've answered plenty thus far- about where you come from, how you discovered Unknown Realms, and quite often, about your relationship with Keats.  You've tried to be fairly delicate discussing that matter so far, but that hasn't stopped them from regularly attempting new angles of inquiry. 

The problem is, when it comes to you and Keats, there’s a lot that you yourself aren’t certain about.  It’s been over a week since he’d bent you over your desk, and thus far, the topic has hardly come up in conversation.  He seems far more interested in pouring over your latest issue, planning for the next, and his own work besides.

The warm lull of alcohol has you feeling fuzzy and content among your new companions.  You let out a pleasant sigh as your finger traces the rim of your glass and you let your heavy-lidded eyes wander aimlessly around the pub.  Belgae holds his glass forward for Ganconer to refill with his preferred ale, and they exchange a few words about something or other.  A minor disturbance in one of the Nether Realms, you think.  Beside you, Jimmy attempts to sneak inconspicuous glances across the room toward Frizzie, and you’re momentarily moved with sympathy.  Yearning isn’t for the weak of heart, that’s for certain.  But looking along the stack of heart-shaped tattoos that line Jimmy’s arm, each with a different name crossed out, you wonder if perhaps his is a little over-active.  Not that you’re in any position to begrudge anyone else their runaway feelings.  Bespectacled turquoise eyes and a haughty smirk form in your mind, and your sympathy pivots into longing.

“Belgae,” you turn to him, and his mask angles toward you, “Do Halflives fall in love?”

Even in your wine-addled state, you’re not surprised that the question seems to take him aback.  He coughs a bit on his own drink, and you let out a good-natured laugh.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to embarrass you!”

“Not- not at all,” he says hastily, clearing his throat with another long draft from his glass before continuing, “To your point- yes, they do.  Halflives possess their own thoughts and feelings, desires and foibles.  Our Jimmy here is a known romantic, for instance.” 

“Tha- tha- that’s not–”

“It’s okay, Jimmy,” you say reassuringly, warmth rosy across your face, “I think it’s sweet.”

This sends the boar-like fellow into a stammering spiral, which you hardly notice through the increasing haze of intoxication.  You lean a bit and push your bar stool onto its back two legs, balancing precariously for a moment before landing heavily back in place.  Belgae mutters your name with a note of caution, but you ignore him and return to your drink with abandon.  He speaks up once again, his voice laced with some sort of conflicting emotion that you aren’t nearly present enough to parse.

“That is not to say that all Halflives are quite so… expressive, when it comes to matters of the heart.  We are, perhaps, every bit as varied as humans, in that regard.  And, given that many of our kind are not predisposed toward self-reflection, in the interest of evading any revelations that might speed them toward their vanishing, some can even be quite, err…”

“Obtuse?” you say, swirling the wine around in your glass.

“Well…”

“Stubborn?” you go on, and Belgae retreats to his drink, “Infuriatingly distant and completely hopeless with relationships?” you say the last words with more force than you intend, but Faery wine seems particularly adept at drawing out your more raw emotions.  Belgae sighs softly, turning to you and, by the position of his shoes, probably crossing his legs.

“Yes, a Halflive certainly could be… all of those things.” 

Another drunken impulse steers your thoughts, a thought that had come to you during more than one especially lonely night in your office, and you turn to face the invisible man as well.  

“Belgae,” you say carefully, attempting to speak clearly and probably overcompensating, “Can Halflives have children?  Biological ones?”

Ganconer erupts into an uproarious bout of husky laughter across the bar from you, startling you a bit as you hadn’t realized he was listening in.  Belgae doesn’t respond at first, still holding his drink near where you assume his lips are, as though subconsciously shielding himself.  Now behind you, you hear Jimmy say,

“Why would you wanna know about a thing like tha- tha- that?” 

Looking up at the hairy mass of the bartender nearby, you gesture at him with your wine glass, boldly demanding,

“Come on, jus’ spit it out!  Do you know, Ganconer?”

He can’t answer at first, as his massive hairy body still heaves with laughter.  But after a moment to breathe, then a pull from his pipe, he finally says,

“No, no they cannot,” another residual chuckle, and he goes on, “Imagine what trouble that’d be-  Halflives having offspring, then up and vanishing one day.”

At last, Belgae seems to have gathered himself.

“Unless the act is an essential part of the wish that created them, then no, a Halflive cannot produce a child, much less with a human.  And, I should say, I do not personally know any Halflive who fits that rather narrow exception,” he adds, and your foggy thoughts are starting to suspect that you know that he knows why you want to know.  Whether playing dumb or simply looking to confirm his suspicions, Belgae asks,

“Is there a particular reason that you would like to know about such things?”

You bob your head to the side, then shrug, take a sip of the fragrant and bubbly drink before you, and drawl out,

“Maaaaybe.”

With this, you take your glass in hand, tilt your head back and drink down the remaining few gulps of your wine.  The aftertaste clings to every corner of your mouth, just shy of too sweet but ultimately quite pleasant, and you find yourself humming with contentment as your bleary eyes once more get lost in the lovely chaos of everyone talking and drinking together. 

“Are you feeling quite alright?”

You look back to Belgae.

“Hm?”

“Are you well?  I trust that Sir Keats will be escorting you home before long.”

“Oh, yeah,” you frown, idly wobbling your bar stool back and forth beneath you as you speak, “he said he’d meet me here once he’s done in War- War…”

“Warcadia.”

“Which he still won’t take me to see!” you nearly shout over Belgae, and his shoulders visibly tense for a moment.

“I am certain that Sir Keats is only thinking of your safety,” he says, his voice measured as ever, “Warcadia is a particularly dangerous Realm.  Surely somewhere like the Faery Realm would be a more suitable choice, should you find yourself eager to explore further.”

“If he’s so worried about me, then he could just say so- or, or at least tell me more about what he’s up to,” as you ramble on, the door to the pub swings open, but you pay it no mind.  Leaning back on your stool, you say, “He always just says he’s sooo busy, even though he spends half of his writing time goofing around with darts and tea-”

“Physical activity helps me think clearly.”

Your back lands squarely against a solid body, and you crane your neck to look up at Keats behind you.  The sight of him sends your heart into absolute fits, and you feel your face flush with more than alcohol as he looks down at you with fond amusement.  He steadies you on the stool, and lets a hand linger at the small of your back for support.  You’re distantly aware that the chatter across the tavern has dulled, and that several sets of inhuman eyes are fixed on you both, waiting for a crumb of intrigue like a dog sitting for a treat.  Keats staunchly ignores them.

“Well, well.  You’ve certainly had plenty of fun for one night.  I suppose this is what I get for leaving you at a pub in the care of these scoundrels.”

“I assure you that we have been entirely gentlemanly,” Belgae says stiffly, “I would advise that you do the same.”

“You wound me, Belgae,” Keats replies with clear humor in his voice, then begins to carefully guide you from your seat, “Come along then, let’s get you home.  Maybe some fresh air on the way will do you good.”

“Fiiiine,” you let out as an exaggerated sigh, though in truth, you’re thrilled to be back at his side.  Somehow his scent seems exceptionally appealing tonight, and you dearly want to wrap yourself in his coat and press your face to his chest.  Something tells you he wouldn’t appreciate that, much less in full view of a bar full of gawking Halflives, so for now, you wave an enthusiastic goodbye to them all, and let him lead you outside by the hand.

The night air through Doolin feels crisp and invigorating against your skin, and you begin to swing your hand playfully as Keats holds it on your way down the path north of the Bridge House.  He does not return the gesture, and makes a somewhat incredulous sound before muttering to himself,

“Well, we’re certainly not going far out on the cliffs tonight- can’t have you toppling into the sea.”

“Keeeeeats,” you whine, following him past the pub owner’s residence and toward the old house on the outskirts of town, “when are you gonna let me see the other Realms?”

“I was thinking tomorrow, but now I’m not certain what sort of state you’ll be in.”

The moon is full and bright above, and when you glance up at the man beside you, it’s doubled in the reflections of his lenses.  You giggle, but don’t say anything until he leads you toward a twisting old tree beside what he’d once mentioned had been the lighthouse keeper’s home.  Here, you slump against the trunk, the bark rough at your back, and lead Keats toward you by his hand.  He catches himself with his free hand on the tree behind you, and you bite your lower lip as you look up at him with large and hazy eyes.

“Keats…” you trail off, not exactly certain of what you actually want to say.  He waits wordlessly, watching you as you rest your hands on his chest.  Halflives can fall in love, you think vaguely, taking his tie in one of your hands and rubbing your fingers along the smooth fabric, can Keats fall in love?

You tug a bit on his tie, guiding him towards you until his lips meet yours.  Maybe it’s the bubbling, fuzzy warmth in your head, but his kiss feels so much gentler this time.  You feel like your chest is filled with cotton candy.  Like the wine has replaced the blood in your veins.  He brushes his fingers along your cheek, then cradles your head in his hand, and when his tongue only briefly dips into your mouth, you moan unabashedly against him.  He pulls away, wearing a crooked smile as he says under his breath,

“Faery wine.  I should have known.”

“Keats,” you murmur his name once again, trying to straighten yourself against the tree and now clinging to the front of his clothes for stability, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh no you don’t,” he says with a wry chuckle, “Not tonight.  You are positively sozzled.”

You pout, which of course only earns you another laugh.  Your touch runs down the front of his chest, along his abdomen, envisioning lean muscle beneath that dress shirt, and maybe a bit of dark brown hair, until you hook a finger behind his belt and try to pull him to you more closely.  He says your name in a way that twists your heart into ridiculous knots, and you look up at him pleadingly.

“I mean it,” you say, “I want you.  Wanna see all of you… touch all of you…”

He takes your hand from where you’re currently trying and failing to unbuckle his belt, and cradles it with your knuckles to his palm, lacing his longer fingers with your own.  With his eyes locked on yours, he brushes his lips to your inner wrist, and the memory of this same gesture while he had you pressed against your desk erupts at the forefront of your mind.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” he says, his grin faltering, “I did at least imply that I would be a gentleman, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t make it so damned difficult.” 

“What do you want?” the question comes out as a single, fumbling word, but he seems to catch your meaning.  Keats draws very close, and brings a hand to your chin to direct your wandering and unfocused gaze toward him.  His thumb runs a slow path along the curve of your lower lip, and you catch your breath, calling all of your strength to your legs to remain upright. 

“I want you to get absolutely everything that you want, and more,” he speaks softly, but clearly, his voice low and heady and sensual and God, you wish you could drizzle it across your tongue like so much Faery wine.  

“But do you know what you’re going to get first, before any of that?”

Your eyelashes flutter up at him as you wait for him to speak with your breath caught in your chest.  Then, he taps a pointed finger to the end of your nose, and says,

“Sober.”

Your brow scrunches in and you jut out your lower lip.  Keats gives one more dry laugh at your somewhat pitiful display of displeasure.  He straightens his back and returns his hands to his pockets, but there’s something strange and new in the way he's smiling at you tonight.  You blink away the smear of moonlight in your eyes, trying to steady yourself while Keats checks his inner coat pocket for a particular magazine issue, then says to you,

“Still have your memento on you?”

“Uh-huh,” you pat your hand over the folded up article in your own back pocket, and he takes your hand.  When he pulls you towards him, you think he pulls just a little too hard.  That, or the Faery wine has got you far more off balance than you’d realized.  Either way, you land against the front of his body, and cling tight onto his clothes.  Your hands clumsily find his waist, and a warmth at your back makes you think he’s holding you to him, as that destabilizing flash of light surrounds you both.  

Before you even manage to force your eyes open the following morning, you’re aware of two primary sensations.  One, the slightly-too-warm tacky smoothness of leather cushions against your skin.  The other, Keats.  The smell of him.  The familiar texture of his coat- which you realize is once more draped over your body as a blanket.  The distant clacking of his typewriter in the next room.  You crane your head up just a little from the throw-pillow it’s resting on, and gradually blink your eyes into focus. 

You’re in the side room through the open arched doorway from his main office.  It’s a cozy sitting area, though in his care, it’s become a mere extension of his all-consuming work process.  Photos and snippets of articles are tacked not only to the cork display by the dart board, but also directly into the wall at seemingly random spots.  As you recall, the couch you’re occupying had been littered with books, old magazines, and a spare dress shirt slung carelessly over the arm the last time you’d visited.  He must have cleared it off for you last night- in fact, you think you see the displaced items in a heap on the armchair across the room from you.  You’re certain that the gentle chaos of this space means something comprehensible to Keats.  That this world he occupies lies entirely at his command.  To you, it looks a mess, but you hardly have room to talk when you feel like such a mess yourself.

You remember most of the prior evening, though parts are more or less defined than others.  Keats had insisted you stay the night, arguing that you needed water and supervision.  Sure enough, you spot a glass of water on the floor beside the couch and reach for it, sighing through your nose with relief as it clears the gummy feeling from your mouth and throat.  While your head doesn’t feel too terrible, you’re a little achey, a little foggy, and definitely under-hydrated.  

The sound of someone at Keats’ office door causes you to lower the glass with a start.  By the two crisp, proper knocks, you assume it’s Belgae.  A desk chair scrapes along the floor, and Keats’ steps sound more urgent than usual.  

“There you are,” you hear him say, “Over here.”

It’s a demand, not an invitation.  Belgae must be stunned into silence, offering no reply as Keats leads him through the doorway and quickly past you to the far corner of the sitting room.  Here, partly obstructed by a waist-height bookcase, is a door.  A door that you’re certain hasn’t ever been there before.

Keats gestures accusingly at it, his brow set into a stern furrow as he glares at the invisible man.

“What, exactly, is the meaning of this?”

“This… door?” Belgae replies politely.

“Yes, the door.  And the room behind it,” he pushes the door open, and the two look inside.  You can’t quite see the room itself in full from your angle, but it looks much the same as the rest of the interior, so you can hardly imagine what has Keats so agitated about it. 

“Would you care to explain why I have a bedroom now?  It appeared some time last night.”

You frown, rubbing your eyes.  Maybe you’re more groggy from the prior night than you thought- but that does seem right, come to think of it.  You’ve never seen a bedroom here before.  And it seems that there is one now.  Belgae seems as taken aback by this interrogation as you are, and he pauses to glance around, his masked gaze eventually coming to rest on you.

“Why, Sir Keats, I cannot say for certain, but…” he places both of his unseen hands properly on the handle of his cane in front of him, clears his throat, then says, “Perhaps it is because you feel some need for a bedroom, as of late.” 

Keats clearly does not approve of this answer.  He steps forward, his words tight and punctuated.

“This is the editorial department for Unknown Realms.”

“Yes,” Belgae says, “It is also your home.  Your Realm.”

That’s right.  This place is part of the Netherworld. Ellen had described the Realms to you as malleable.  Responsive to thoughts, feelings, ideas.  This is too much to piece together five minutes into consciousness after a night of drinking.

The following silence seems to stretch on endlessly, and you watch Keats with a growing uncertain ache in your chest.  His jaw flexes tight, and looks back to the door as though considering it deeply.  A hand straightens his tie, another fusses restlessly in his pocket.  You're reminded of his words the prior night- physical activity helps him think clearly.  Whatever the real issue is here, he's agonizing over it.

Belgae lets out a punctuated sigh, then speaks with audible measured patience.

“I suppose there is some possibility that other influences are at play,” he says, though you can tell he doesn’t put much stock in this idea, “But you know as well as I that the primary intended purpose of this Realm, from its conception, has always been to serve you.”

You frown a bit, still trying to clear your head and keep up with this bizarre conversation.  Why does Keats have his own private Realm, anyway?  Ellen had never mentioned anyone else having something like that.  Why didn’t he have a bedroom before?  If you’re following Belgae’s logic, then the room in question appeared because the Realm ‘sensed’ that Keats had some need of it that he hadn’t before- and this opens up a whole new host of tempting questions eager to get your hopes up. 

Keats lets out a long exhale that comes from deep down in his chest, a hand running through his hair.  You expect him to have some theory, or another illuminating line of questioning.  Instead, he dully says,

“That’s all I needed you for.”

He pulls at his tie until it lies undone around his neck, then seems about to head back to his office with his fingers rubbing irritably at his nose.  You push yourself fully upright on the couch and say,

“Hey- you don’t need to be so rude to Belgae, it sounds like you’re the one who invited him, and he’s only trying to help.”

They both turn towards you.  As Belgae begins to express his relief that you’re feeling alright and assurance that you “needn’t worry on his account,” Keats turns on a heel and strides back toward you.  He crouches to bring himself to your eye level, and takes your water glass from you.

“How is your head?  Are you nauseous at all?  You need to drink more water.”

Before the words are out, he’s heading to the kitchenette in the next room, presumably to refill your glass.

“I- I’m really fine!  My head’s a little woozy, but I’m sure food and water will sort that out,” you call to Keats from your cross-legged spot on the couch. Belgae brings a hand to his chin- assumedly -and gives a subdued chuckle. His expressions are typically incomprehensible, but it seems that he’s watching Keats in the other room.

“Yes, some of us are rather hopeless, aren’t we,” he mutters to himself.  When he catches you giving him an inquisitive look, he waves a hand, saying, “Ah, please pay me no mind.  In any case, I believe I will be going then,” he faces you and gives a polite bow, “Please do take care of our Sir Keats.” 

Your face warms in an instant.

“If he’ll let me.”

His soft and weary sigh seems to say that he understands you perfectly.

Belgae leaves through the main door before presumably vanishing into either the human world, or some other Netherworld Realm.  You fold Keats’ coat on the couch, then pad softly over to the kitchen area,  nearly colliding with him on the way.  He shoves the filled glass into your hand before turning back to retrieve the tea kettle.

“Drink that- all of it.”

You take it, then come to lean with your lower back resting against the counters beside him as he fills the kettle and lights the stove, cursing when the burner takes a couple of tries to properly ignite.  Without complaint, you down about half of the water, the sensation a welcome relief from the dry ache in your throat.  When you’ve had your fill for the moment, you pause and absently stare down into your glass with a smile.  Amidst the comfortable quiet, Keats fusses with things around the kitchenette as you sift through your own thoughts.  Eventually, he’s the one to break the silence.

“What are you smirking about?”

Your smile doesn’t waver, and you shrug a shoulder.

“You care about me,” you say, glancing to your side at him and noting how he refuses to meet your eye, “In your own way.  It's nice, that's all.”

His lips press together into a thin line.  He glares at the tea kettle, though there’s hardly anything he can do with it now until it finishes heating.

“I’m not entirely heartless.  And I don’t make a habit of fucking people I particularly dislike.”

The first direct mention of that night since it occurred brings a surge of heat to your face, but you need to keep an upper hand here.  It’s rare to see Keats so off-balance, and you won’t miss the opportunity to get some clarity out of it.

“You care about me and you’re being pissy about it,” you take a long gulp of water, then mutter, “How very ‘Mr. Darcy’ of you.”

Keats’ movements are rigid as he keeps himself occupied with the tea process, two mugs set onto the countertop with a harsh “clink.”  

“If you recall, the entire point of that novel is that Elizabeth is equally at fault due to her own preconceptions.” 

Your eyebrows leap upward, and you nearly choke in disbelief.  Setting your glass down behind you, you turn toward him with arms crossed.

“You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?”

He looks at you with an expression of indignance so profound that you think you may have actually offended him a little.

“Yes, I have read one of the most lauded works ever committed to page in the English language,” he says sharply, “God, listen to yourself…” he adds under his breath.  

“Alright, sorry,” you give a short, awkward laugh, and hold up your hands, “You just don’t exactly seem like the ‘romance’ type, that’s all.” 

“I read everything I can get my hands on, and your presumption to the contrary is very ‘Elizabeth Bennet’ of you,” he says.  With no more busy-work in front of him Keats is forced to face you as he speaks, his glasses slightly fogged with the steam from the kettle.  He takes them and rubs the lenses with the fabric of his tie as he says, “Anyway, regardless of my own opinions on the matter, notions of romantic love have produced much of the finest literature in human history.  And some of the most dismal.”

You let out a short snort of laughter through your nose.

“Well, you clearly didn’t learn much from any of them.”

“Should I have?” 

You meet Keats’ gaze at last as he replaces his glasses on the bridge of his nose.  It’s a terrible time to be struck by how handsome you find all of those angles and dramatic lines that form his features.  He steps forward, his brow casting a shadow over his eyes, and his tone carrying an unfamiliar edge,

“Would you prefer if I were like that?  If I spoke like those ‘romantics?’” slowly, he draws near, and places his hands on the countertop on either side of you, caging you against it, “Shall I declare all of the sins I’d commit and the gods I’d forsake to be by your side?  Tell you that I'd topple armies and move mountains for a glimpse of your smile?”

His body is warm against you.  Your pulse is rushing out of control, and you can feel it in each of your limbs.  Something about this sudden and bizarre performance makes you uneasy, but Keats is scrambling your thoughts and you’ve handily lost your strategic advantage from earlier in this conversation.  You feel his voice like a ribbon tightening around your lungs, and you barely manage to choke out,

“You’re messing with me on purpose.”

“Maybe you’d prefer if I said I’d slaughter any other man who so much as looked at you,” his nose brushes yours, and you almost think you can taste his lips before you even feel them, “Or that you belong to me now.  You're mine.  Mine to keep and protect, to please, and to do with as I desire.”

His bottom lip grazes yours.  You draw in a single, shaky breath.  Then, to your left, the tea kettle begins to screech, and you flinch out of your trance.  Keats steps away, and flicks off the stove burner.

“Well, that’s never been my style,” he says dryly, “besides, you’re a grown adult.  You can do as you like.” 

You see it now.  He's deflecting- trying to redirect your attention to the physical, the surface-level.  Unwilling to allow him to retreat just yet, you take a breath and say,

“Do you even believe love exists?”

“I have yet to see sufficient tangible evidence.”

The response is quick and rehearsed.  As he fills each mug with steaming water, he goes on,

“A trick of one’s hormones or brain chemicals, perhaps.  An evolutionary drive to reproduce and secure mutual stability.  But love, such as Austen portrays it, well… consider me unconvinced- exceptional prose aside.”

Keats nudges your tea towards you on the countertop, and throws you a quick, crooked smirk.  The expression is a touch more sardonic than his usual.

“Disappointed?”

“No,” you say lightly, “No, honestly, that’s about what I expected.  I mean come on, I know you by now, Keats.”

He doesn’t respond, at first, and the two of you stand in silence, tea in hand.  You blow across yours to help it cool, and Keats stares down at his own with a ponderous furrow of his brow.  It’s an attractive look on him- one you’ve seen him wear while writing.  He breathes out a sigh, and sets down his mug without having taken a sip.

“You need to eat something.  Go sit down, I’ll…” he looks around the kitchenette aimlessly, “I’m sure I’ve got… toast or- or something.”

You barely hold in a laugh, the feeling stuck bubbling in your upper chest.  He’s being cute.  It’s outrageous and strange, but sure enough, you can’t think of any word for it but “cute.”  He doesn’t even seem to have considered that you could just go back to your own office and eat something in the area, opting instead to take full responsibility for your needs.  If he sees the way you’re pressing your lips together to subdue your grin, it will only worsen his mood, so you do as he says and head back toward the sitting room, with a flippant, “Fine, fine,” as you wander off.  You take your time meandering through the office, letting your eyes scan over the headlines of a few articles pinned to the walls, and thinking of how nice it feels to be welcomed into this space.  Into his domain.  When you reach the sitting room once more, you see his coat where you left it on the couch, and smile warmly to yourself.

Keats does not believe in love, obviously.  You could have assumed that much on your own.  He doesn’t believe in love, but he has inspired and encouraged you to pursue your writing dreams- consistently made time for you, professionally and otherwise.  He wrote an entire article solely to help you, and has said that he enjoys when you, specifically, read his work.  He’s brought you into his world, introduced you to those closest to him, confessed that he thinks of you constantly and despite himself.  He fusses over you, and now that you’ve seen him around others, you can see how gentle he is towards you.  Keats does not believe in love, but at this moment, in the next room, he’s putting together some semblance of a breakfast for you, as you slowly realize that you’ve never seen him eat even once.

“You have no way to defend yourself.”

You frown.

“Okay, sure.”

“You would have to stay close by my side at all times,” Keats says, knotting his tie and then pulling it loose, “If I lost sight of you, you’d be as good as dead.  Worse than dead, from what I hear.”

“I can do that,” the defensive tone of your voice sounds a bit immature, but you don’t have much ground in this argument and you know it.  Keats levels his narrowed eyes at you over his glasses as he grabs his coat and shoves an arm into it.

“You woke up on my couch this morning.”

“That was your idea, and you insisted,” you counter, arms crossed.

“You’d be in even worse shape if I hadn’t.” 

“I wasn’t that drunk.  Come on, it’s been over a month, Keats!” you drop your hands to your sides in exasperation, “You can’t tell me there are other worlds out there with monsters and stuff and then refuse to let me see them- I’m running an occult magazine, here!”

“And I suppose your readers will be more than open to you raving like a lunatic about visiting some faery world- that would be spectacular for your journalistic credibility,” he says, both hands gesturing outward before falling lamely at his sides, “You’re not seriously planning to write about the Netherworld.”

You let out a heavy sigh, immediately deflated.

“No, obviously,” you mutter, “And honestly at this point, I don’t know how much of the Doolin story I can justify publishing, either.”

There’s a pause.  Keats rubs a hand at the back of his neck.  Then, his shoulders slump, and he says,

“Alright.  I won’t leave you behind tonight.”

Your face brightens, and he goes on,

“I’ll go to the Bridge House with you.”

At first, you’re disappointed.  Still no Faery Realm visit.  But then, you recall dozens of nights spent fielding the Halflive’s questions after Keats had long since made his unceremonious exit from the tavern, and you perk up.

“You mean you’ll… stay and spend some time with everyone?”

“Sure,” he says, “Who knows, maybe one of the regulars has a lead on something interesting.”

Sitting at the table nearest to the fireplace- the one that has become your usual spot to catch up with Ellen -you think back on that conversation with mixed feelings.  It does bring you a sort of comfort to know that Keats prioritizes your safety.  But surely he, of all people, must understand the nagging curiosity this has left you to stew in.  What does a Faery world actually look like?  What is it like to breathe at the bottom of the sea?  Ellen’s stories had filled your mind with such fantastical images that at this point you only hope the Netherworld can live up to all you’ve imagined.  Still, there must be some reason for Keats’ hesitation.  Perhaps, one final piece to put into place. 

And you’re fairly certain you already have that piece in your hand.

Ellen says something to Keats, who stands leaning on the bartop with Belgae at his other side.  He nods curtly in response, then turns to Ganconer and seems to ask him a question.  It’s probably the first in a long, prepared list of inquiries.  You’ve come to learn that no visit to the Bridge House is complete until Keats has thoroughly interrogated the bartender and noted any potential stories or avenues of investigation.  The man is ravenous for information.  

Ellen approaches with drinks for the two of you- water, in your case, since the prior night had somewhat dampened your desire for alcohol for the near future.  She catches your eye on her way to the table, and follows your line of sight to Keats.  You realize with a spike of embarrassment that you’ve got an absolutely foolish grin on your face, but as Ellen takes her seat, she hurries to say,

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel self-conscious at all.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you reply, looking quite sheepish now as you take your drink from her, “I guess I’m kind of obvious, huh.”

She offers you a gentle expression, but does you the mercy of not responding to your words.  You sit silently for a moment to enjoy your drinks together, letting the usual energetic chatter of the nearby Halflives float ambiently around you.  Eventually, Ellen brushes back a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and says,

“He cares for you too.  I can tell,” her posture straightens and she speaks more confidently, “Really, I’ve never seen him like this with anyone else.  He’s so… well, he’s always attentive, I suppose that’s in his nature, to pick up on things.  But it's different with you.  And he… he talks about you, you know.  While we're traveling together in the Netherworld.”

Your hands tighten around your glass.

“He does..?”

Ellen nods vigorously.

“Yes, often.  He acts like he’s just talking about his work, and at first, I think he was- back when he first told me he was helping Unknown Realms begin publishing for ordinary people again.  But over time, he started mentioning things about you.  About how you’re doing from day to day, or about things you’ve said while working together.”

You tighten your lips, staring down at the woodgrain of the table as if you could conceal your feelings by simply not meeting her eyes.  In truth, you feel as though your heart is trying to vibrate its way right out of your ribcage.  Ellen must sense it, despite your best efforts.  She fusses with her hands in front of her and says,

“He, ah… doesn’t express it very well, does he.  How he feels, I mean.”

“He’s miserable at it, you’d think it would kill him,” you say, and the pair of you share a laugh until the tall shadow over your table silences you both.  You look up at Keats and smile brightly,

“Hey- all done interviewing Ganconer?”

“Not much of an interview.  Things are fairly quiet in the Netherworld at the moment.”

You’d think this would be a good thing, but from the low set of his mouth and the crease at his brow, you can tell that Keats is displeased.  He must get restless when there’s not much to report on.  Still, if there’s nothing too pressing to address in the Realms at the moment, that may work in your favor.

“Ellen” you say, turning to her as Keats settles at the table with you, “What if you came along to show me the Netherworld?”

“Oh, well,” her eyes dart to the side, “I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“Then we’ll just go and I’ll make Keats take me some other time.”

“I beg your pardon,” he scowls and crosses his arms, but you ignore him, fixing Ellen with an encouraging look.

“What do you think?”

She looks between you and Keats across the table, and slowly seems to understand your angle.  Provoking him often seems to be the only way to get an emotional response from him, after all.

“Well, I suppose if you stayed close and we kept to the safer areas…”

Keats huffs and throws his head back dramatically.

“Breaking: Netherworld Messenger Conspires Against Her Own Guardian.  That’s rich- tales of treachery do always sell well.”

You let out a snorting laugh.

“Come on Keats, we’re hardly ‘conspiring’.” 

“You’re trying to go above my head,” he points out, now narrowing his eyes at you from behind his glasses, and you must admit he has a point there, “Besides,” he adds, his tone sharp, “The Messenger surely has more important things to attend to than playing tour-guide through the Realms.  And, need I remind you, you two hardly have usable mementos to keep you from getting separated.  It’s outright reckless for you to go to the Netherworld without me.”

You and Ellen exchange a look, and with an unassuming smile, she says,

“Keats does have a point.  I suppose it would be wisest for you to stay with him as much as possible.”

“Yeah, I think so too,” you say, mirroring her innocent expression.  Keats pushes up his spectacles, pausing before bringing his glass to his lips.

“Somehow I feel I’ve been had,” he mutters against the rim before drinking.

The sound of your name shouted just behind you causes you to flinch.  You quickly turn, then have to adjust your line of sight lower to see Demona, pudgy and vibrant red, gesturing with her broom as she exclaims,

“That last issue of yours was really something!”

“Oh!  You- you read it?” your eyebrows rise, and you turn fully toward her as Frizzie and Charlie come to join in sharing their praise.

“Of course we did!” Charlie chimes in with a bone-rattling laugh, “We read every issue!  Well, all of them that Keats has brought us, anyway.”

“Even the ones from before I came to Doolin..?”

“Every one, yes,” Frizzie replies.

You turn and look toward Keats, who simply shrugs, absently swirling his drink in his glass.

“I can only provide so much material each month, myself.  I figured you’d appreciate the additional exposure.” 

You look warmly at him, and as far as you can tell behind the orange-tinged glare across his lenses, he’s avoiding your gaze.  If you didn’t know better, you might even think that’s a hint of blush across his pale features- but that must be just another trick of the firelight.  

Returning to the group of Halflives, you clasp your hands and say,

“So, what did you think?  I don’t get a lot of chances for  in-person feedback– well, from anyone other than Keats, anyway.  Be as honest as you like, there’s no way you can be harsher than he is.”

They share a chuckle at this, and even Ellen has to hide a smirk behind her hand for a moment, but it’s not long before each Halflive is fighting for air to tell you their thoughts and opinions.  Most voice their amusement at what fantastical things humans will concoct to explain the unexplainable.  That these beings born from wishes find ideas of phantoms and curses positively absurd seems to be a lost irony to them, but it’s intriguing to hear their perspectives.  They all agree that you must have extorted Keats in some way to get him to write for you- but if anything, they’re more amused than disturbed by the prospect.  A great many other observations are lost in the cluster of frantic feedback, and you make a mental note to ask them more individually for their thoughts in the future.  A good while into this impromptu review session, Demona speaks up over the others, her boisterous voice rising above the chaos once more,

“That business about seeing ghosts during storms- I bet those were really Halflive sightings!  Most of them, anyway,” she says, slapping a hand over her belly, “Humans always come up with the most ridiculous explanations when they catch a glimpse of one of us!”

“Well, I can’t exactly write about Halflives,” you say with a short laugh, and Frizzie leans forward, her blank eyes widened.

“Oh, no, you mustn’t- not ever.”

“Don’t worry, Frizzie,” you say gently, “I understand you guys don’t wanna be bothered by humans.  Your secret’s safe with me.  To be honest, I’m even reconsidering the whole Doolin article.”

There are a few overlapping comments on this, but Ellen gently touches your arm.

“Are you certain?” she asks softly, her concern showing clearly on her face, “I know we’ve talked about your hesitations with that article, but I’d hate for all of your work here to come to nothing.”

You appreciate her sympathy, to be sure, but if anything it only reinforces something that you’ve come to believe over your weeks here talking to the locals, both Halflive and human.

“It’s really fine.  Mostly I just… I don’t want to cause any more trouble for anyone here.  The humans have already been through so much, and the Halflives just want to live carefree lives until they find their callings.  The last thing anyone here needs is me turning this town into some magnet for internet weirdos on ghost hunts.”

You haven’t discussed it with everyone, but your readership has picked up a bit with the last couple of issues.  While this is obviously a matter of pride and excitement, it also only heightens the sense of responsibility you feel as an occult journalist to avoid publishing anything damaging or insensitive.  The Doolin story would be a minefield.

“Still, seems a shame,” Charlie says, “All that work for nothing.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing to me,” you say earnestly, “I’ve learned so much and I've really enjoyed getting to meet everyone and spend time with you all.  And just because I probably won’t do the article doesn’t mean I won’t still come by.  Especially once Keats starts showing me around the other Realms,” you add pointedly, and you hear him let out a scoff at your side.  You decide not to mention what you’re most grateful for out of your time in Doolin- that it’s brought you closer to Keats, and moreover, to understanding him.  

“Well, it's very considerate of you, and I'm certain that everyone here appreciates it,” Ellen says, and while you try to play off her comment with a shrug, the Halflives seem to concur.

“In fact,” Charlie glances around at the others while tapping a bony hand on the neck of his saxophone, “Why don't I play us all a little something?  To show our appreciation, and to celebrate a new regular at the Bridge House!”

“Nya-hah!” Fir Darrig cackles from atop the bar, “You know as well as we do that you can't do a thing with that hunk of metal– unless you've grown in some lungs lately!”

Your brows draw in just a bit.  It seems odd now that you'd never considered it before, but that is a fair point.  How does he play a woodwind instrument without lungs?  Charlie lowers his eyes sheepishly, and you lean forward to say,

“Wait, so, you're a musician but you can't use your instrument.”

The other Halflives watch Charlie with varied degrees of sympathy as he mutters,

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“So… what if you tried a different instrument?” you say, “Maybe you are a musician, but just not a saxophonist.”

The colorful group before you is silent, exchanging looks of bewilderment as you think to yourself- that can't be right.  It can't be that none of them has ever considered this before.  Are the blind spots among Halflives truly that severe?  You hear a short ‘snrk’ nearby, and turn to see Keats barely holding in a laugh, a hand over his mouth and head turned toward the fire.  As the Halflives begin murmuring amongst themselves about the idea, you wait until Keats looks back to give him a dry side-eye.  This only encourages him; he holds his hands up defensively and says, still on the verge of laughter,

“I think it's brilliant.  Positively brilliant.  Wish I'd thought of it.”

With a roll of your eyes, your attention is called back to Charlie as he asks,

“Well, what kind of instrument should I try then?”

“Isn't there an old fiddle lying around here somewhere?” Ellen suggests, and you nod- you are fairly certain you'd seen one moved from table to table to clear space.  After some rummaging about, Ganconer finally finds it tucked behind the bar, and hands it over to Charlie.  You'd never thought you would ever see an anxious skeleton, but everything from his eyes to his posture show his uncertainty.  Every human and Halflive present waits in anticipation as he lifts the fiddle onto the bone of his shoulder, and positions the bow.  You brace yourself for a harsh, experimental scratch.  Instead, a simple melody forms, easy and clear, the notes gliding into one another naturally.  A collective intake of breath rouses the crowd, and Charlie pauses, looking at the fiddle in his own hands with startled surprise.  Then, bow meets strings once more, and this time, the fiddle sings.  The tempo picks up, the notes ring true, and in only a moment or two, the entire tavern is full of feet stomping and hands clapping in time. 

Before long, Demona takes Jimmy by the arm and pulls him stammering and stumbling into the open area between the hightop tables and the bar.

“Well come on, quit standing around and let’s have ourselves a dance!”

Frizzie extends a hand to Ellen, who laughs as she hops down from her chair to be elegantly spun beneath the Halflive’s arm.  Soon the impromptu dancefloor is crowded with activity, and you watch and clap your hands as pairs laugh and stumble and turn to the rhythm of Charlie’s newly mastered fiddle.  As one song follows another, the Messenger turns out to be a popular dance partner, and you almost feel bad for Ellen after her third consecutive turn.  Yet another part of you is tinged with a more conflicted emotion.  

Without thinking, you sneak a sidelong look over at Keats.  He’s watching the proceedings with arms crossed, drink in hand, and his passive smirk comfortably in place.  You’re not surprised that he shows no interest in joining their revelry, and you try to convince yourself that this- this time here with him, in his world -is enough.  Even so, your glance his way doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Need something?”

“No,” you say, a bit too quickly.  He doesn’t respond, and you look back to the crowd where Belgae has finally joined the others, and is guiding Ellen through the final motions of a slower, more refined step that you’re not familiar with.  As the last, lingering note of the song draws out through the warm tavern air, the pair part with a bow and a curtsy.  Then, Ellen catches sight of you, and with a quick look at Belgae, hurries back to the table with him in tow.

“Don’t you want to dance?”

“Oh- uh, I’m fine, really,” you bumble out with an awkward shrug, and the two before you share another unreadable look.  Speaking deliberately, as though afraid to scare the man off, Belgae begins to say,

“Perhaps Sir Keats would care to-”

“He most certainly would not,” Keats replies gruffly, pushing his glasses into place.  Your heart sinks a bit, but it’s not as though you’re surprised.  This is precisely why you hadn’t tried to broach the subject yourself.  Ellen, however, isn’t satisfied with this response.

“Oh come on now, don’t be like that, Keats!” she says, then turns back to you, “You’d like to dance together, right?”

By now, the other Halflives have started to take notice of your conversation.  In the lull between songs as Charlie fusses with the fiddle’s strings and takes a moment to rest his bones, the matter of getting Keats to dance rapidly becomes the most pressing matter for everyone present.  

“Don’t be such a stiff!”

“It’s just one dance!”

“Live a little!”

As the insistent choir escalates, Keats’ expression becomes one of careful, cold impassivity.  They may as well be tossing pebbles at a brick wall.  Evidently, Belgae senses this as well, and steps forward to politely take your hand in his.

“Enough, all of you,” he says, “If Sir Keats does not wish to partake, then we must not impose upon him.”  Then, he says your name and bows his head deeply, and you feel the very slightest brush of his lips across your knuckles, “I, however, would be honored if you would join me for a dance.”

You’d never expected an invisible man could be so charming.  You smile and open your mouth to accept when the sudden movement of Keats’ chair draws your attention to him.

“Conniving bastard,” he mutters, and takes your hand from Belgae with slightly more force than you’d expected, “I never imagined you could be so underhanded.” 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Sir Keats.” 

From the polite and even tenor of his voice, you almost believe him, but now that Keats is guiding you toward the recently instated dancefloor, Belgae’s gambit is all-too clear.  You’ll have to remember to thank him later.  

Charlie readies the fiddle at his shoulder once more and the others watch eagerly, as though drawing a breath might spook your reluctant dance partner and send him fleeing into the night.  Keats positions you in the middle of them all, with just enough room around you to place you two squarely at the center of attention.  Your face warms, then blooms into a bright red as he wraps an arm around your waist and takes your free hand in his.  He doesn’t keep a platonic distance like the other dancing pairs had– you’re pressed firmly to the front of his body.  Before taking a step,  he leans down until his hair tickles the side of your face to whisper against your ear.

“Still got your memento?”

You frown slightly.

“Yes, but-” 

“Good.”

A single crooning note from the fiddle reaches your ear before the sudden flash of white blinds you. 

When you blink your eyes back into focus, the tell-tale dizziness of Netherworld travel slowly dissipating, you’re back in the same office you woke up in just this morning.  Still in Keats’ arms, you look up at him with a curious eyebrow raised.

“Didn’t like the venue?”

“I don’t perform for them, that’s all.” 

He releases you, making his way to an old radio sitting on the windowsill across the room.  You watch him turn it on and wiggle the dial back and forth until it begins to produce something coherent- and to your surprise, familiar strings meet your ears.  Given the way that this Realm seems to supply Keats with what he needs, perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised that tonight, it offers him the perfect soundtrack for your private dance together.

“You won’t ‘perform’ for your friends, but you will for me,” you say, affecting confidence despite the way your heart skips when he tosses his coat onto the desk, and returns to draw you in against him once more.  

“I agreed to a dance, didn't I?  Besides, without an audience, this isn’t a performance.  This is simply…” he drifts off for a moment, his eyes flickering down over your face, “What I want.” 

Once he's caught the pace of the tune, he begins the first slow and stilted steps.  It’s fortunate he’s keeping this dance simple- you’re not certain you could handle following complex motions with his body flush to yours and his lips so close you have to consciously keep yourself from them.  Still, this is all so typical of him.  Getting everyone's hopes up for a show only to spirit you away to do things on his own terms.  You shake your head with a huff of laughter from your nose.  

“God, you are so…”

You trail off,  and he quirks an eyebrow. 

“What am I?” Keats says with a teasing lilt as he turns you, guiding the slow rotation around the room.  When you don’t respond immediately, he leans closer, his voice lower.

“What am I, Y/N?”

You raise your eyes to meet his, heart lurching up into your throat at his surprisingly sober expression.  Everything you’ve seen and learned weaves together, tying your theory together with a neat bow.  You know the real answer.  Is that the one he wants?

A Halflive.

“Impertinent,” you say at last, “Absolutely impertinent.” 

In an instant, the grin is back on his face.

“So you’ve said.” 

You try to let your heart settle as you fall into step with him, and Keats guides you confidently through the simple motions.  Swaying gently, turning slowly.  He doesn’t seem like the sort who would bother to know any particularly involved dances anyway, and you’re frankly surprised that he’s this competent at it.  

As the soft, nostalgic sound of overlapping strings through the aged radio speaker fills the office, a strange thought occurs to you.  Maybe he knows the basics of dancing because he’s supposed to.  Maybe Keats has never actually danced before in his life, never with his own body.  Maybe he has this knowledge as a default setting, of sorts, something filled in to create the construct of a being that exists for someone else’s purpose.  If he is a Halflive, how much of him has been crafted out of another’s wish, and how much does that leave for him to claim as his own?  The thought makes your chest thrum painfully, and suddenly you feel a new understanding of that steadfastly independent nature of his.  

“I don’t do anything out of obligation.”

You recall how firmly he’d proclaimed these words.  How insistent he’d been.  Then, how he’d interrogated you that night when he kissed you against his desk, desperate for the certainty that his wants were his own.

How much of his strange, unpredictable behavior toward you has been born of a fear that his feelings were not truly his?

The music slows.  Keats guides you under his arm in a twirl, the motion surprisingly whimsical by his standards.  But when you return to his arms and the tune begins to fade, he seems to note something in your expression.  

“What is it?”

You look up at him and meet his eyes, taking in that entrancing stormy turquoise color.  They’re clear and focused entirely on you.  

“Keats,” you say, his name catching in your throat at first.  His brow lowers, but he waits for you to speak. With a breath, you finally say, “You’re… a Halflive, aren’t you?”

You watch his face relax into a rare, subdued smile.

“That’s my clever reporter,” he says, “I had a hunch that you’d put it together on your own.” 

You swallow hard as you take in the full reality of it.  Keats’ thumb brushes your cheek, but his expression is carefully neutral when he asks,

“Does that change anything?”

“No,” you say, honestly, “No, it doesn’t.  You’re still…” you give a small laugh, “A huge pain, for one.  Stubborn, and cocky as all hell.  You’re a brilliant writer.  You’re more idealistic than anyone realizes, and you care more than you’d ever admit.  You’re, you know… you’re Keats.” 

Both of his hands cup your face, he tilts his head, and presses his lips to yours so firmly that your legs nearly crumple beneath you.  You whimper into him, grasping onto his strong forearms as he kisses your breath and your thoughts away.  Why does it feel so different this time?  It should be at least a little familiar by now.  You know the scratch of his facial hair, the sensation of his wide-set mouth fitted to yours.  You know his scent and how to angle your face so that you don’t bump his glasses.  Why does this kiss suddenly feel like falling upward?

When his lips part from you, you take in a trembling breath with your eyes still closed.  Keats breaks the silence, and there's a note of amusement in his voice, but also a genuine heat that you can feel sinking beneath your skin. 

“You know, I've had some work done around the place recently.  How would you like a tour of the new bedroom?”

The all-too eager tension in your lower belly would have you following him absolutely anywhere he asked.  For now, you breathlessly say,

“Lead the way,” then let him take you by the hand as the music becomes background noise draped in a cozy layer of radio static. 

Keats pauses in the doorway of the bedroom to tug off his boots as you step forward and take a look around.  It’s matched to the styling of the rest of his office, and fairly sparse, but you had expected as much.  The bed taking up the corner by the door is wide and looks comfortable in that impersonal, hotel-like way, and two extra bookcases are lined up against the far wall which you’re certain will be full before long.  You glance over a shaded lamp, an old-fashioned alarm clock, and one stray magazine issue all arranged on an end table, and you’ve already run out of things to look at when Keats’ arm around your waist tugs you back to him. 

You moan into his lips as he draws you into one of his thorough, methodical kisses.  The type that shows how completely he’s memorized you.  His hands trace your silhouette against him as he backs you toward the bed, his tongue dexterous in your mouth, his touch certain and unabashed.  You run your own hands up his hard abdomen to his chest, pulling his tie undone and tossing it carelessly to the floor before starting on the buttons of his vest.  It’s near impossible to focus on your task while he’s kissing you like this, claiming your lips over and over, seizing all of your attention.  You’re already flustered when you pull away from him, and he lets out a low chuckle at your visible frustration with the gauntlet of buttons before you. 

“Someone’s eager,” he murmurs.  The grin he gives you is a bit fond, and admittedly a bit condescending.  It is, unfortunately, incredibly hot, and you hold your breath as he makes quick work of the vest himself and leaves it to join his tie.  You don’t even wait for him to finish removing his shirt- the moment it’s open at the front, your hands run along his body, and you bite your lip at the sight.  He’s tight, lean muscle all over, just as you'd imagined, a dark trail of hair just peaking up from his belt.  You stare openly at him, watching his slim but defined stomach subtly tighten when your fingertips pass along its center, and admiring the cut V shape of his hips leading your gaze further down. 

“How the hell do you look like this as a journalist…” you mutter, brows rising in disbelief.  

“The Netherworld keeps me active,” he says with a slanted smirk.  Somewhere in the pocket of your mind where you’ve stored away your critical thinking for the time being, you imagine that he must look the way he does for a reason.  Halflives always seem to take a form that will serve them.  Maybe you’ll ask him about it later, when your brain isn’t submerged in a pool of hot, liquid lust.  

The bulge at the front of his trousers draws your eye, and the ache in you travels from your throat, through your chest and down between your thighs.  You run a hand over it, recalling how this cock had filled you before, and barely hold back another moan.  When you move to unbuckle his belt this time, he lets you.  He’s being exceptionally accommodating tonight.  By the time you work his length out from his clothing, it’s half-hard and every bit as impressive as you remember it.  Once again, your teeth drag across your lip, and you groan at the sight of him.  Running a finger along the thick shaft, you feel it twitch, and he says with a strain in his voice that he tries to conceal,

“Are you going to get undressed or are you planning to just ogle and fondle me all night?”

Your hand wraps around his cock just beneath the crown and begins slowly stroking him, steadily working him harder and harder.  Once he's completely erect, you can barely believe you took all of that inside of you last time.  The thought occurs to you that you probably could spend a night just touching and admiring him. 

“If you don’t want that then don’t make it sound so appealing,” you say, rubbing a finger along his tip in firm, tight circles.  His breath audibly catches, and you’re not sure you’ve ever heard such an arousing sound before.  The sound of Keats faltering.  Once you manage to coax out a small bead of precum, you fist the head of his cock and drag it down his length, the slight lubricant lending a warm, slick sensation that causes him to throb in your grasp.

Keats groans, hunching over you with a hand at your upper arm.  He whispers harshly in your ear, his breath like a flame licking at your skin,

“If you don’t get undressed and get on that damned bed, I’ll put you there myself.” 

Your body obeys before you even consciously think to do so, hastily removing your clothes and letting him guide you down onto the sheets once he's done the same.  His arm hooks behind you so that your neck rests on the crook of his elbow, his tall frame laid at your side.  Your breathing stalls as you feel his other hand cup the inside of your thigh, dragging your legs open before running warm up its inner curve.  He's as direct as ever- if not with his words, then always in his actions.  

His name rushes past your lips as his fingertips trail between your folds.  The way his arm cradles your head encourages you to face him, and you think this may have been an intentional strategic maneuver on his part.  He keeps his eyes on you as his long fingers slide around your clit, coating them in your wetness and waking your nerves until your body arches up towards him.  Yet he's still not touching your most sensitive spot directly.  Instead, he teases all around it, occasionally nudges it gently, and when your lips part and you pant out his name, this time tinged with desperation, he pushes two fingers inside of you.  

“You're soaked,” he murmurs, nuzzling the side of your neck until the scratch of his facial hair makes your skin tingle.  He doesn't sound particularly surprised, but he's not gloating, either.  More just taking it in- maybe imagining how it will feel.  You clench around him when he moves down to brush his lips to one of your nipples, then trails his tongue around it until it stiffens into the air.  Keats breathes out a restrained groan and takes it in his mouth, never easing the deep, steady pulse of his fingers.  As your breath quickens and the warm pleasure begins to build into something hot and urgent, he kisses his way back up your chest and along your throat.  Then, his fingers curl against some incredible spot within you, and you whine desperately as your legs begin to tremble.

“Look at me,” Keats says, his voice effortlessly compelling, “I didn't get to see it last time- how you look when you cum.  I've been curious about it ever since.”

Curious.  You can't wait to find out what else he's been curious about.  While you can't force yourself to formulate a response, you once again obey without a thought and meet him with a dazed, unfocused look.  His expression would seem stoic if you didn’t know him so well, but you see the tense set of his jaw and the flutter of his eyelashes as he takes in your panting lips, your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes silently beg for him.  He’s stroking that tender spot over and over, and then, he does something with those long fingers- something a little faster, a little firmer, and you whimper his name into the quiet of his room.  As a molten warmth begins to pour out from your core through your limbs, you gasp aloud for him and Keats watches with rapt attention.  

His fingers only slow inside of you briefly as you start to come down from your orgasm, and when he eases them from you, you expect a chance to breathe.  Instead, he keeps going.  A jolt of pleasure sets every hair on your body on-end as his fingertips toy with your clit with expert precision.  Circling, stroking, teasing it, stimulating it ruthlessly until your thighs tremble around his hand.  You’re too sensitive to endure this; every subtle motion of his hand sends raw heat rocketing through your body.  Head spinning, hands grasping mindlessly at the sheets, you stammer out,

“Keats, I- I just- I can’t-!” 

“You can,” he whispers, his lips now barely apart from yours, “You will.”

It’s maddening.  Dizzying.  Your hand grips his free one on the pillow beside you, and you squeeze hard in your attempt to endure the onslaught on your nerves, your sense of time and space.  Your hips pitch up from the bed, and his touch chases you, never allowing a moment of rest in his single-minded pursuit of your second rapid climax. 

When it hits, your vision blurs.  Your mind goes blank.  You’re clutching Keats’ hand so tight it must hurt, but if he notices, he makes no complaint.  His darkened eyes are fixed on you, narrowed as he watches you with obsessive focus, and you struggle to even form that one precious syllable of his name.  Another slow, purposeful circle of his middle finger around your clit sends a tremor through you, pulling a tortured groan from your lips, and you just manage to catch the cat-like curl at the corner of his mouth. 

Panting still, you slump onto the mattress and let your eyes flutter back to his.

“Was…” you take a breath, and try again, “Was making me cum until I black out also something you've been curious about?” 

He considers your question with far more gravity than you'd expected.

“Well no, but now that you've mentioned–”

“Keats,” you half sigh, half laugh, and that cocky grin of his only widens.  He moves to kneel over you, and pauses to glance at the pile of clothing beside the bed.  You have a guess as to what he's looking for.  With a somewhat bashful look, you say,

“I didn't bring a condom, but, uhm,” your face warms, “You… don't actually need to use them, right?”

“I should think that’s your decision,” he replies bluntly, his tone once again more serious than you'd expected, though in this case it feels a good deal more warranted.  Your heart thuds heavily once as you softly say,

“I-I've heard that Halflives can't have children.”

He raises a brow.

“Have you now?”

“Belgae told me.  And Ganconer.”

Keats frowns, lowering so that he’s propped with an elbow planted on the pillow behind you, while the opposite hand rests against your cheek.  His voice takes on an odd quality- somewhere between tense and teasing.

“And why, pray tell, would they have told you something like that?”

“I…” you avert your eyes, but Keats doesn't let up, ensuring with his touch at your jawline that you can't fully look away from him.  You press your lips together briefly, then say, “I asked them about it last night.” 

This conversation would already be difficult to have, but it’s made all the more impossible by the feeling of his hot, hard cock occasionally grazing against your lower body, drawing away your focus.  Re-awakening your appetite.

Keats slowly begins to trail his hand downward, caressing the side of your neck and towards your breasts.  You feel yourself arching in time with his touch, following it as he continues along your side, tracing the curve of your waist and the swell of your hips.  Your lips fall parted, and a high, needy whine escapes you.

“Keats, please…”

His nose brushes yours, so close it’s like breathing him in.

“Tch.  So hopeless,” he mutters, and before you can respond, you feel the blunt tip of his cock at your entrance.  Perhaps it’s the lingering awkwardness of your confession, or perhaps you’re simply wound too tightly with excitement.  Your entire body is on high alert, over-sensitive and over-attentive to every motion and sensation.  As he begins to push into you, your eyes scrunch shut and you hold your breath.  The pressure is mind-numbing, and before he’s more than an inch or two inside of you, Keats pauses, holding himself carefully in place.

“You need to relax.”

“I can take it,” you reply breathlessly, forcing yourself to look up at him.

“Believe me, I know,” he says, “But you’re too tense, and I’m not trying to hurt you.”

The words make your pulse rush, and they certainly don’t help you relax.  Keats rolls his hips slowly against you, each subtle push easing in, though the pleasure is still tinged with a sting of pain.  Why is it more difficult than the last time?  Why does everything feel so different tonight?

While you attempt to concentrate all of your focus into easing your muscles, Keats wrests you from your thoughts by cradling your head in his hand and angling you towards him.

“I know what you need.”

Then, his lips are on yours, and he’s kissing you in a way he’s never kissed you before.  It’s slow and deep, his chest evenly rising and falling as his tongue slides into your mouth to meet yours.  This time, he’s moving with you, not overwhelming you or pulling you into his pace.  Not investigating you- not now, when he already knows you so well.  It’s tender.  Intimate.  As a sluggish, melty warmth moves through your limbs and you lose track of any part of yourself that isn’t connected to him, the thought occurs to you– it’s romantic.  

“Ohh…” you moan softly when he sways against you, pushing further, filling deeper.  The pain has largely faded, along with any sense of control over your own body.  Your parted lips and his remain close, touching occasionally, sighing into one another until he’s finally held tight inside of you to the base.  

“That’s it,” Keats murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, “That’s good,” his head lowers onto the pillow beside you, bringing your bodies flush to one another as he thrusts in long, steady motions.  You sigh out his name, hands running up his hard body, and he whispers so that you barely hear, “So damn good…” 

It takes all you have not to clench around him again.  Instead, you cling to him with your arms, one raking your fingernails through his hair, the other dragging along the muscles of his back.  To your surprise, his lips find the column of your neck and he presses a firm, open-mouthed kiss there that sends a shiver along your spine.  He bites down, and you gasp aloud, fingers curling, pulling him against you, urging him on.  You want him to mark you.  Want him to give you something to keep, at least for a while.  His rich brown hair spills around you, his muscles subtly flex with every steady thrust of his hips, and his scent- God, the scent of him is everywhere, earthy and masculine and absolutely intoxicating.  

At last, your body has acclimated to him, and his pace picks up.  Keats fucks into you until his cock is coated in your release and your thighs tremble around him.  You feel the contours of his shaft, the veins, the ridge of its crown all grinding against your inner walls, the friction electric and rhythmic and utterly perfect.  At some point, he whips his glasses off of his face and tosses them with a clatter onto the nearby end table, all without slowing for even a moment.  You try to shift your hips in time with him, to chase the feeling of him massaging you all the way to your core, but before long he’s bucking into you so hard that you can’t even attempt to match his movements.  There’s a flicker of pain again, but this time, it’s an ache below your belly that only adds to the thrill of taking him, fully and completely.

Keats looks down at you, a red-faced, dazed mess in the bed he needed solely to see you in it.  You feel his cock throb, stretching you around him, and his hand hooks under your knee to spread your legs wider for him.  Now, his hips meet your inner thighs each time he drives into your soaked cunt, your entire body seems to reverberate with the pleasure of each piston-like thrust.  You meet him with a drunken, lustful gaze.  He looks like you’ve never seen him before- hair wild around his sharp features, eyes burning and alarmingly vibrant.  It’s such a far cry from the dry, cooly confident man you so easily picture writing in silence at his desk.  He’s relentless.  He’s beautiful.

“Keats, I- I’m- fuck–!!”

“Tell me what you want,” he says through gritted teeth, pressing his forehead to yours but never slowing, “Tell me what you want, so I can give it to you.” 

“Inside,” you gasp out between your incoherent moans, “Cum inside.  Fill me.” 

It’s all you can manage, and it’s all he needs.  Keats completely loses his sense of rhythm, pace stuttering as he ruts into you, chasing his release.  You’ve known him to be single-minded; you’ve never seen him entirely mindless before.

His grip squeezes almost painfully tight at your thigh.  His cock twitches and swells inside of you, and in a brief, delirious moment, you almost think his entire body seems bigger than usual, bowing over you and surrounding you.  There’s a low rumble in his chest.  A flash of silver in the corner of your eye, maybe somewhere in the mess of his hair, as he pins you to the bed.  More silver.  A glow, which you think must be your vision failing you once again.  Then, your name, snarled against your ear. 

Your head tips back on the pillow as Keats’ climax overtakes you both- and, you're fairly certain, a third peak of your own as if in direct response to his.  Once more, he buries his face against your neck, his heaving breath oppressively hot across your skin.  His entire length bucks against your inner walls, twitching fiercely as he pours out his cum as deep inside of you as he can fit.  Thoughtlessly, he give another harsh jerk of his hips, milking his cock in your tight walls, drawing out every last drop of his considerable load.  Then, his hand relinquishes its iron grip on your thigh only for your legs to instinctively wrap around him, holding him to you.  

You remain tangled together like this for some time even after his taller frame relaxes against yours all at once- though you couldn’t even guess for how long exactly.  When Keats pushes himself up onto a hand and runs the other through his hair, combing it back from his face, you can feel the accumulation of his cum and yours dripping down the curve of your ass.  You bite back a moan as he pulls his gradually softening cock from your spent pussy, watching him with your eyes groggy and half-lidded.  When you’ve finally regained the ability to speak, you say,

“What… was that?”

“That,” he says, stretching his body to the side to retrieve his glasses from the end table, “was an orgasm.  Damn good one, too,” he adds, pushing the lenses up his nose matter-of-factly. 

You snort out a laugh, and prop yourself up on your elbows.

“No, I mean…” you frown, not entirely sure what you mean, “You know what I mean.”

“If you’re not going to explain it, then no, I don’t,” he says, then releases a heavy exhale and lets himself slump down onto his back on the bed.  You turn onto your side to face him, secretly quite pleased that he doesn’t seem interested in getting dressed just yet.  Even so, he speaks with the steadfast professionalism of a much more clothed reporter when he says.

“Now then, circling back to a matter from earlier.  Would you care to explain why you felt the need to interrogate my associates about my reproductive capabilities, or are you planning to blame that on the Faery Wine?”

“Well the wine definitely helped,” you mutter, feeling a hot rush to your face as you struggle to think of a way to explain to him that in reality, you just desperately wanted to feel his raw cock.  That you’d fantasized about him pumping you full of his cum as you pleasured yourself in your dingy closet-bedroom.  In a rare moment of mercy, Keats speaks up when he realizes you have no further excuse. 

“When it comes to questions of how I fuck you, perhaps you ought to come directly to the source from now on,” his body turns just slightly towards yours, “A journalist should know to ask the right questions of the right person.  I’ve never misled or lied to you.”

“But you have kept things from me,” you point out, though there’s no malice or resentment in your voice.  You understand that he needed to be careful about certain things, and to that point, he says,

“Things that were easier to comprehend once you had figured them out for yourself.  Not to mention, I have the interests of my readership to consider,” you nod, willing to accept this to some degree, and he goes on, “Plus,” the faintest hint of a smile touches his lips, and he raises a hand to brush a strand of your hair into place, “I do so enjoy watching you hard at work.” 

You roll your eyes, though you can’t help a small smile of your own.  Shifting closer to him on the bed, you prop your upper body on his chest, and he slides an arm under your waist.  It’s almost cuddling, though you wouldn’t dare to suggest something so sentimental to him.  Fingertips idly playing with the ends of his hair, you ask,

“Do you know what your wish is?  The one that created you?”

“Afraid I’ll up and vanish one day?” he says it with a casual apathy that may have unsettled you months ago.  Now, it’s expected.

“Sort of, yeah,” you admit, the tiny tremor in your voice causing Keats to frown.  Then, he scoffs and says,

“Well, I’m afraid you won’t be rid of me that easily.  I don’t know the exact specifics down to the letter, but the most crucial part is to look after Ellen.  As far as I can tell, it’s how I was drawn to Doolin to begin with.  Now, as her Guardian, it’s likely I’ll be around as long as she is.  And seeing as something about the Messenger gig seems to extend the lives of those who excel at it,” he stretches out his back, letting out a long sigh, “If I do my job and she does hers, we’ll both be around for a good, long while.”

There’s some comfort to this, but it’s all so strange, so much to process and file away.  Your head is spinning, and it’s not lost on you that he has once again deflected from your original question about what happened to him in the throes of his climax.  But right now, your body aches, and you need to go wash up.  When you start to ease yourself up off of him, Keats splays a hand at the nape of your neck, and pulls you back to kiss you.  Your breath completely halts, your chest tightening, and when he slowly releases you, you look down at him with absolute bewilderment. 

“Stay,” he says, his voice scratching in his throat.

“I- I need to clean up,” you stammer out.

“Do it here, then stay the night.”

“Again?  Are you sure?” you search his eyes with open disbelief, but he seems quite serious, “Keats, I have work to do on my next issue.”

“And how is your progress thus far?” 

“It’s…” your eyes wander as you think on the state of your current draft, “It’s coming along.  I don’t think I’ll need another bail out, anyway.”

“Then stay and I’ll bring you back in the morning so you can show me what you have and continue your work,” his eyes are on your lips as he adds, “You wouldn’t get anything done tonight anyway.”

He’s certainly right about that.  Your head is far too full of Halflive revelations and mind-blowing sex to formulate a single sentence about Legends of Blood Sucking Creatures From Around the World, or whatever this month’s feature article was going to be.  Aside from which, he’s holding you so gently and kissing you like you’re lovers and not colleagues who fuck sometimes, and it’s all culminating in one more win for Keats’ uncanny ability to get what he wants from people.  It doesn’t hurt that this is easily what you want most as well. 

“Fine,” you say, brushing your fingers along his jawline and enjoying the roughness of his facial scruff, “But after tonight, and once we both get our work for the month back on track, we’re going to this Faery Realm of yours.”

It’s not like you’d expected it to be easy or simple, reviving a long-dead publication with nothing but a dream, your own bank account and a bit of help from a few like-minded friends.  But you hadn’t expected it to feel quite this hopeless, either.  Passion alone had carried the project this far, but passion won't pay your bills or cover printing and marketing.  This first issue needs to be perfect, but at this point, your best bet is some sort of divine intervention.

With a drawn out sigh, you hunch forward and rest your forehead in your hand, half-closed eyes staring blearily at your laptop screen.   The draft in front of you reads Unknown Realms in a classic serif font that’s as close to the original as you could find.  You imagine it had been selected to evoke a tone of scholarship and respectability.  Even the most flighty and fanatical readers want to feel as though their supernatural fancies are being addressed with the utmost academic sobriety.  In contrast, the cover design itself- generously assembled by a friend with a nearly unused graphic design degree -barrages the viewer with questions plastered over occult imagery and blurry photographs.  

Do otherworldly visitors walk among us?

Could you contact other worlds?

Recognizing portals: have you encountered one without even knowing? 

It fits what your intended audience wants and expects, that's for certain.  But with your entire so-called “budget” tied up in printing costs, how could you possibly find an editor or even beta readers to go over the content itself?  Your eyes drag over the first paragraph of the first article for the thousandth time.  It's missing something, you know it.  It feels as flat as the words themselves on your screen.  This first issue needs to grab hold of each and every reader, and turn one-time customers into devoted subscribers.  Portals to other worlds.  Possibilities of some great, unexplored ‘other.’ The concept itself is thrilling, but how can you translate the way it grips you to a skeptical audience?

You groan as you scroll through the drafted pages, knowing full well that staring at the text won't help you any more this time than it did the eighth or ninth time you had re-read it through in this evening alone.  The lower right of your screen tells you it's past midnight, now.  Your desperation has eaten away at the minutes and hours.  This needs to go to print, and soon.  You have to start recouping costs, or this entire project, the dream itself, is dead before you even have a chance to revive it. 

With a drawn out exhale, you get to your feet and let them take you over to the electric kettle on the dresser pulling double-duty as a countertop.  You hadn’t been particularly craving tea, but you needed to get up and do something, so this would serve as a distraction if nothing else.  You will yourself to focus on the mundane task, rather than the creeping dread crawling up your throat, and fill the kettle in the bathroom sink.  You realize you’ve filled it far too high for one person, but as you shut off the faucet, a sound seizes your attention.

There are footsteps in the hall outside.  In an ordinary apartment building, this wouldn't be so strange, even late at night.  But you aren't meant to be living here.  In truth, it's a commercial space, which you've been living out of as a cost-saving measure.  Surely you would have been notified if there were any kind of inspection or utility work scheduled.  Just as you're still wracking your brain as to who exactly could be in the building at this time, a sharp knock sounds on the door to your office. 

You stare at the door from across the sparse expanse of the room, unsure whether you had heard correctly.  After a lengthy pause, the unseen figure on the other side lets out a short sigh.

“There are lights on, and from the street I saw someone moving about in there,” comes a male voice in a matter-of-fact tone, “I’m looking for someone who evidently needs my help.  The least you could do is hear me out.”

Another halting, uncertain pause.  Then,

“Just- just a minute!” You call out, abandoning the kettle on the dresser for now.  On your way across the room, you make a passing attempt at straightening your hair and clothes into something close to presentable.  Whoever this is doesn't need to know how dangerously close you had been to falling asleep on your keyboard moments ago.  With a breath and a few blinks to focus your eyes, you open the door.  The figure on the other side takes you aback; for a moment, you size him up, eyebrows raised and a hand frozen on the door handle.

The man standing before you is someone's definition of handsome, to be certain, but you can't quite decide whether he fits yours.  Your immediate impression is somewhat more uncanny.  The circular spectacles perched on his long, hawkish nose flash in the stark fluorescent lights of your office.  They coyly guard his eyes, preventing you from feeling quite sure of his gaze.  His rich brown hair might be elegant, if he deigned to tame it into a clear shape, and it almost seems a shame to see soft and full hair like that wasted on a man who can't be bothered even to secure his necktie or find a properly fitted vest.  By contrast, his coat seems bafflingly bespoke; a long and deeply hued purple number accented with golden Celtic knots, which must have been a one-of-a-kind vintage acquisition.  It's this coat, paired with his tall but sloped posture, that gives him a looming, bat-like silhouette, and leaves you feeling uniquely off-kilter before him.

“Uh- Unknown Realms, editorial department,” you say stiffly, not quite as professional sounding as when you'd rehearsed it.  

“Is it now?” There's a note of humor in his voice, though you can't imagine what he finds so amusing.  The man smirks, both hands planted in his pockets as he steps into your office with the easy self-assuredness of someone who has never questioned whether he should be anywhere.  While his line of sight is impossible to track, you can see him scanning your office seemingly inch by inch.  As he silently takes in his surroundings, your mind races through a debate: kick him out, or entertain whatever this strange visitor wants from you?  To your surprise, your mind makes itself up with far less adjudication than you’d expect.  You let the door swing shut, and hurry back towards your desk.  Your curiosity has won out, as it so often does.

“Can I help you?” You ask, a bit more pointedly than you'd intended. 

“I should be asking you that,” he says, “from what I understand, you're rather desperate.”

You might take exception to being described that way by a stranger, but it's not as though he's wrong.  He meets you at your desk, absently moving his hand over stray post-its and scribbled sheets of notes.

“Tell me, what exactly are you trying to accomplish here?  I have my own theories, of course, but I'll need some answers from you, first.”

“I'm sorry,” you say with an indignant laugh, “you need answers?  You just waltzed into my office in the middle of the night without so much as an introduction!  Just who do you think you are, anyway?”

“Keats,” he replies simply, a hand adjusting his glasses, “I'm a reporter.”

“Keats?” You repeat with a frown, “like the-”

“Like the poet, yes,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “though poetry is hardly my field.  Your turn.  Who are you, and what do you have to do with Unknown Realms?”

The nerve of him, interrogating you in your own office. 

“I'm- well, I'm trying to-” your brows scrunch together and you shake your head, “wait, you know Unknown Realms?”

“Consider me a long time fan.”

As he speaks, his attention turns to the stack of old issues of the original magazine resting in a barely organized stack on the edge of your desk.  His long fingers slip idly through the pages of the top-most issue on the pile, but he offers no more of his thoughts.  While his eyes remain carefully shielded by the glare of his glasses, his lips are curled into that strange, almost playful grin. 

“A fan,” you repeat after him once again, still processing this bizarre situation.  Finally, you sigh and let your hands drop to your sides.

“My name is Y/N, and, well… basically I'm trying to revive the publication.  Give it a second chance,” Keats gives no reply, and his measured silence compels you to keep talking, “I know it sounds kind of ridiculous, but growing up, we had old issues around the house and my friends and I would pour over those articles, just… enthralled,” your expression warms as your eyes drift to the cover of the issue Keats is flicking through, “It was inspiring. And comforting in a way, I guess. To think that we’re so small, and there could be so much out there to be discovered and understood.  And so I, uh… I want to bring that to others.  I want our readers to feel the same thrill I did back then.  Well, when I get readers, anyway.”

“You’re a true believer, then.”

He says it with a dryness that makes it clear this isn’t a compliment.

“In the supernatural?  Not exactly.  Not completely, anyway,” you cross your arms in front of you, suddenly feeling quite defensive, “I just… don’t want to close up my mind.  Science has come far, sure, but there’s still so much we don’t understand.  If I don’t have all the answers, then who am I to discount the possibilities?  Especially if it could inspire someone else the way it inspired me.”

It’s a little clumsy.  Definitely wouldn’t stand up even to your own editing standards.  Still, Keats nods slowly to himself, and closes the magazine in his hand.  He gestures at you with it, and says,

“Nostalgia is a poor reason to put yourself in this state.  But it does seem that you and I have a common interest.” 

Every word this man says puts you more and more off-balance.  There’s a word that fits him- not quite ‘audacious,’ and ‘rude’ seems too simple.  He hasn’t been unkind per say, though he clearly cares little for social niceties.  Yet as you circle this thought, the cheerful beep of your electric kettle causes you to flinch.  

“Oh my God, I nearly forgot,” you head toward the dresser and root around for a second clean cup, “tea?”

“If you insist,” he replies, though his thoughts are clearly elsewhere.  As you prepare your drinks in mismatched mugs, Keats circles around your desk to get a clear look at your screen.  He eyes your laptop curiously, and you can’t help feeling self-conscious beneath his scrutiny.  You have no doubt that his feedback will be particularly un-filtered.

“It’s- it’s not quite finished, and I need to source a couple more photos for the-”

“Relax,” he cuts in, “If I’m going to help you, I need to see what you have so far.  We’ll go from there.”

“Why… are you helping me?” You ask tentatively as you return to the desk with tea in hand.

“Like I said, we have a common interest.”

“I need more than that,” you say, finally having gathered the nerve to be straight with him, “your story is thin.  How did you even hear about me?  And how do I know that you can help me at all anyway?”

Despite your firmer tone, you still approach him to offer his tea.  He takes it wordlessly, and you realize that this close, you can get a clearer look at his eyes.  Shrewd, cutting eyes.  Eyes that gaze down at you with an assessing stare that nearly makes you shiver. 

“I'm a journalist as well, remember,” he says at last, “I write for a similar publication- though don't worry,” he adds with some humor, “our audiences are quite distinct, we won't be stepping on one another’s toes.”

“Hm. Anything I've read?”

“Not likely,” he says flatly, and you wonder if you've ever met someone who was both so blunt and so evasive.  He drags the spare chair from the corner of the room over to your desk and turns it around to sit on it with his arms resting crossed along its back.  All of your furniture looks somewhat off contending with his lanky frame, like he wasn't quite designed to fit in this mundane space.  Keats sips his tea as you take your seat in front of your laptop, the steam fogging his glasses.

“In any case, you ought to know that a reporter is only as good as their sources,” he says, “I keep my ear to the ground.  I came to understand that someone around here had something to do with that old magazine, and that they were in dire need of assistance.  And it seems my tip was right.”

“Damn good sources,” you mutter.  

“I'm a damn good reporter,” he says, leaning forward to place his mug on the desk, “now, show me your work.”

You feel that sensation again- that there's a word for him just waiting at the tip of your tongue. For now, you exhale and turn toward the screen, scrolling back to the top of the draft. 

“Okay, so-”

“No preamble,” he says, “your readers will be approaching your work cold, so I'll be doing the same.”

At first, you want to argue with him.  Part of you has wanted to since he arrived at your door.  But you realize as you watch his eyes scan your writing line by line that you genuinely do want to hear his feedback.  If he’s as good as he thinks he is, then the universe has dropped the perfect editor directly into your lap.  You're practically holding your breath waiting for him to say something to break the tense silence, and you have to consciously remind yourself to drink your own tea before it goes cold.  It's nearing 1am now, but you feel strangely energized.

“Cut this sentence,” Keats says at last, jabbing a finger at the sentence in question. 

“It's there for emphasis.”

“It's clumsy and unnecessary.  Look,” he shifts his chair closer to you, “the prior sentence is strong.  It's vivid and communicates your point clearly.  Belaboring that point only weakens it.”

You open your mouth, then close it, and delete the offending sentence.  It does, unfortunately, read better this way.  

Keats nods and continues on, his hand fumbling a little with the scroll function on your track pad.  The silence doesn't feel quite as heavy this time, and as it settles around you, you find your eyes wandering back to the man beside you.  This close and at level with him, you suppose that he isn't bad to look at.  From his jawline to his nose and cheekbones, he's all clear, sharp lines and angles, as intriguing as he is unsettling.  Perhaps his face and his personality had been sculpted by the same artist.  As his brows furrow and he hums a short, disproving sound, the word you've been searching for comes to mind.

“Fix the spelling error here,” he says, “And you need to do something about this concluding paragraph, it leaves no lasting impression.  As for this word choice…”

He trails off as you watch him, a hand lingering at his chin.  He is handsome, you decide.  He's also-

“Impertinent.”

Keats frowns, eyes still on the screen.

“What?  No, that doesn't make any sense here.”

“I mean you,” you say with a laugh, “you are incredibly, unabashedly impertinent.”

He glances sideways at you, a single eyebrow arched.  

“I suppose I've been called worse.  Besides,” he leans back and stretches his arms above his head with a sigh, “from what I'm seeing, you could use some impertinence.  Your style isn't bad, but your readers need to believe in you as a voice of authority, and you won't accomplish that if your work lacks confidence.”

You nod silently.  Perhaps, if you can borrow some of Keats’ impertinence, you'll be able to seize your readers’ attention the same way he's monopolized yours since he arrived.  

“Alright,” you say, straightening your back and pulling in closer to your desk, “I agree about the structure of the conclusion overall, but for the record, I stand by that word choice at the end there.”

Keats crosses his arms over the chair’s back once more, his usual smirk comfortably in place.

“Convince me.”

Another two hours pass in this fashion; Keats presents an objection, sometimes you negotiate, more often than not you follow his guidance and the result is an improvement.  Another round of tea comes and goes amidst your constant back and forth, an admirable but ultimately feeble attempt to fortify your body and mind.  Yet as the night wears on into the very early morning, still pitch black outside and glowing fluorescent inside, your focus finally begins to waver.  Your eyes have begun to ache at the sight of your laptop screen, and each comment from your new editor is becoming harder and harder to follow.

“What is the purpose of this phrase here?” Keats briefly tries and fails to highlight the words, but quickly changes tacts and simply gestures to them, “It comes across as vague.”

You squint at the line he’s pointing towards.

“Hm?  That one?  Uhm, I think it’s meant to set a tone of… awe?”

Keats sighs and leans back, adjusting the tie hanging loose around his neck.  He glances at you in the corner of his eyes and watches you with a long, unreadable stare that would make you terribly self-conscious if you weren’t so overwhelmingly exhausted.  Then, he stands so abruptly that you nearly jolt in place. 

“That’s enough for tonight.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are flagging, and your work will suffer if you continue in this state.  I won’t waste my time on sub-par work.”

Well, the confirmation that he at least doesn’t find the majority of your work “sub-par” is a little comforting.  He certainly has given plenty of his time to it.  Still, you suppose he is right.  You’re nearly itching inside to have this issue completed, to get it to printing.  But a mediocre first issue won’t give Unknown Realms the new start it deserves.  

You echo his sigh and get up as well, a little unsteady as your legs had nearly fallen asleep before you.  Keats is headed for the door already.  Without looking back, he says,

“Rest, and we will continue tomorrow.”

You’re still rounding your desk when his hand meets the door handle, and you call as you half-jog to him,

“Wait- Keats- you can’t just-”

He gives an exhale from his nose, not even quite a sigh this time, as he glances back at you.  His bangs have fallen along the sides of his face in a way that briefly makes your heart skip.  He really does have lovely hair.  God, you’re tired.  

You open your mouth to speak when you reach him, but all you manage is a stilted,

“Thank- uh, thank you for your help.”

He pushes up his glasses, and you’re beginning to think this may be a habit more than necessity.  

“Please don’t mistake me for the altruistic sort,” he says wryly, “I have my own interest in the success of this project, that’s all.  Now rest.” 

The very moment Keats closes your office door behind him and his footsteps fade down the hall, you begin to wonder if you had imagined him entirely.  Somehow, it’s only in his absence that you’re able to recall the sprawling list of questions you still have for him.  What exactly is his interest in reviving a long dead occult magazine?  Who gave him the tip to find you?  Where did he even come from?  And aside from the questions you can put into words, everything about him just seems so ephemeral, so difficult to grasp.  You look groggily back and see the spare chair where he left it, turned backwards with his mug on the desk nearby. 

After a profoundly destabilizing night, you grasped tightly onto the normalcy of a lunchtime coffee date with your friend-turned-graphic designer.  It had helped ground you, and it was a relief to be able to report how productive you’ve been lately, promising to send her the new draft later in the day.  The time had passed so comfortably, chatting about everyday things.  She complained about her new boss, you mentioned a few interesting leads for stories that you’d found among the extensive list of paranormal forums you’ve been following, and you both lingered over the last few gulps of your drinks for long enough for them to become lukewarm.  By the time you exchanged your goodbyes at the door to your office building, you had felt very nearly at-ease.  But the moment you wave her off and head inside and up the stairwell, your mind is back on work.  Work, and your new “editor,” of course. 

You wish you could have talked about Keats even a little without coming across as absolutely mad.  Most of your friends are concerned enough for your well-being without tales of a mysterious man with a clearly fake name who you, for some reason, let into your office in the middle of the night and who dodged every semblance of a personal question you threw his way.  Any reasonable person would think that you’re working yourself into delirium.  No, talking about this openly would only invite more concern and speculation about your safety, your mental state, or both.  Yet the thought does reaffirm your resolve- you'll find out more about him one way or another.  That is, if he does show up again. 

When you push open the door to your office, your eyes are immediately drawn back to the extra mug on your desk.  There’s no way you had imagined him.  He’d simply rattled you, that’s all.  Not to mention disrupted your sleep schedule.  Briefly, you consider sneaking in a nap on the cot you’d crammed into the walk-in closet around the corner, but with a sigh you shrug off your jacket at the door and decide against it.  You have to keep momentum.  Mind made up, you return to your desk and open your laptop.  

The Unknown Realms, Issue 1 working document is as you left it around 3am the prior night, scrolled down to the central article which details different kinds of otherworldly portals from cultures around the world.  It’s in no way comprehensive- that would be virtually impossible with the sort of page count you can afford -but all of the major concepts are here, and this particular article had demanded by far the most research from you.  Your stomach tenses and your eyes narrow at the screen.  You’re both nervous and undeniably eager for Keats to look over these pages.  While you’re proud of your efforts, you can’t help but wonder if it will stand up to his exacting standards.  With a short exhale, you straighten your back, and resolve to give it one more pass.

When the knock you’ve been waiting to hear for hours finally reaches your door, you lurch up from your desk so suddenly that you nearly knock over your chair.  Once again, it’s near midnight.  Is he simply not capable of visiting during normal business hours?

“Be right there!” 

You round the desk and hurry to the door, and the feeling of relief that wells up in you when you see Keats’ looming figure surprises you.  Though, perhaps it’s not so strange, given you’d been on the cusp of convincing yourself you’d hallucinated the entire night prior.

“You’re here,” you say, realizing afterwards that it’s a somewhat asinine way to greet someone.  He raises an eyebrow at you and steps into your office.  You notice a stack of papers tucked under his arm as he passes.

“I said I would be.  Is that a problem?” “No- I just wasn’t sure that-” you mumble as you follow after him to your stations from last night, “Nevermind.”

Keats returns the extra chair to its spot at your desk and deposits the stack of papers there with little ceremony.  When you take your seat as well, you finally get a good look at them.  You take the top page in your hand and look it over.  They’re notes, and detailed ones at that, all related to the precise topic of your feature article: portals to other worlds.  While not particularly well organized, at least not by any method you’re familiar with, they are thorough and clear, covering everything from faerie circles to tori gates and even household mirrors. 

“The first section are more well-known types of portals that any self-respecting researcher of the supernatural would include, and thus, the most essential.  From my brief overview last night, you have most of those, but there are some finer points to the tales and legends that you may have neglected,” he explains, once again sitting with his chair backwards and his arms across its back, “After that are a few esoterica that you may choose to exclude, depending on page count.  It’s nearly all nonsense, of course.  Hysterical stories of spectres crawling out of bathroom mirrors and such,” he says with his typical sardonic expression, “But one must sift through nonsense from time to time if they hope to dig up any truth.  Ah, and the last page and a half or so are more thematic and stylistic notes.”

You’re processing his words, at least partly, as you flip through the pages in hand one after another.  However when he finishes his explanation, you voice the first question that had jumped to your mind on receiving this strange gift.

“Do you use a typewriter?”

Keats pauses only briefly and adjusts his glasses.

“I do, yes.”

“Of course you do,” you laugh and shake your head, looking back at the pages with their tell-tale classic font and thick black ink, “You’re such a weirdo.” 

“It suits me.  I prefer to invest myself in the physical process of writing,” as he speaks, you can’t help letting your gaze drift back toward him, “The keys of a computer are flimsy and insubstantial.  Typewriters are… tactile.  Present.  Writing is an act of the mind and the body.”

“Hm.” you nod along with his words.  They do make an odd sort of sense.  Perhaps you ought to stop by a second hand shop for a typewriter one of these days.  Though something else has caught your attention as well.

“You’re more chatty today,” you say, smiling just a little.  He had seemed so closed off the prior night, hearing him speak more freely is oddly comforting, like you could actually have a normal conversation with him.

“Just talking shop,” he replies, “I don’t often find the chance to speak with a fellow journalist.  Don’t take it to mean anything.” 

Once again, he’s tied you up in conflicting emotions, speaking about you as a peer in the same breath that he dashes your hopes of really connecting with him.  Unsure of how to respond, you change the topic.

“Tea?”

“I’ll do it,” he gets to his feet and points back to his stack of notes, “Review these in the meantime, and we’ll be able to get back to work.” 

The following hours are as rewarding as they are grueling.  Keats is a strict task-master, expressing his feedback bluntly and demanding a rigorous defense any time you resist one of his edits.  But rather than frustrated, you feel invigorated by the challenge.  The continuous exchange of ideas, the more active method of transforming your writing from what it is into what it can be, is far more motivating than anything you could have accomplished in the lonely silence of your office.  It’s as he had said- writing is an act of the mind and the body, and having him here to help you embody it in gestures, in arguments, in spoken word translated into written, is uniquely inspiring.

“Your conclusion is weak, again,” he says flatly at around two in the morning.

“This is the most research-focused article, the conclusion has to have a more academic sound to fit the overall tone,” you’ve begun to feel more confident pushing back against him.  In fact, you’re starting to suspect that you get his best advice when he’s a little impatient.  When he replies, you can tell from the tension in his voice that you’re getting there,

“Believe me, I can appreciate that.  I wouldn’t be here still if you weren't approaching this with at least some amount of scientific rationale.”

It’s true that you’ve couched all of your supernatural speculation within a tone of skepticism- one which Keats has only encouraged through the editing process.  No proper occult reporter ought to go so far as to confirm a tale or legend outright, and the average reader will only grow in respect for a publication which practices restraint, presents the evidence, and leaves questions open to individual judgment.  Still, his dissatisfaction is painted clearly across his face.  

“Okay,” you sigh, “so what’s the issue?”

Keats stands and begins a slow pace across your office, one hand in his pocket while the other runs his fingers idly along the perpetual five-o’clock-shadow at his chin and up his jawline.  As if you needed another reason to focus your attention there.  

“It’s bland.  There’s no style to it, nothing beyond the bare bones of the content itself to spark the imagination, or linger in the reader’s mind.”  

You cross your arms and slump back in your seat, glaring daggers at the screen before you.  As usual, you’re forced to admit that he’s right.  But you haven’t a clue where to start on fixing it.  A strained silence lingers around you both.  Keats turns to look at you past his shoulder, his glasses flashing in that mirrored way that keeps you from reading him.

“Listen,” there’s a slow, considered tone in his voice that you're not familiar with, and it calls your eyes up to meet his, “You have thematic resonance here.  Portals to other worlds- an access point into the unknown.  It’s a fine topic, but isn’t that also what you’re creating right now?”

“I…” you frown, “In what way?”

“You, the all-powerful journalist,” he gives an exaggerated bow of his head toward you, “Are extending a hand and inviting your readers to consider things beyond what they had ever dreamed possible.  In that way, wouldn’t you say that your publication itself is a portal of sorts?” 

Your eyebrows rise just a little, and his smirk broadens as he watches the idea take root in your mind.  Turning from you, he resumes his pacing along the front end of your desk and continues, “Right now, at this moment, countless paths of discovery sprawl out before us- a quantum realm, observed particles, even senses and ways of perceiving available to both beast and man that we are only now beginning to comprehend.  Scientific inquiries that will reveal truths most have never even considered.  It is your job,” he jabs a finger at you dramatically, “to get them to consider it.  A place where the pursuit of truth is paramount, and the possibilities which inspired you as a child can be illuminated.   An unknown realm.  That is what you offer to them.”

When he finishes speaking, you realize that your heart is pounding. You clench your jaw and focus on his meaning, stealing a moment to really take in what he’s proposing.  Eventually, you let out a short sound of disbelief.

“You might be the most idealistic skeptic I’ve ever met,” you say at last.  Keats scoffs, and you just barely see him roll his eyes behind those spectacles.

“Idealism.  Now that’s something I’ve never been accused of before.”

“It's hard not to see it that way when you're… waxing philosophical,” you say, “but I do get your point.”

“Good.  Now, you've got your work to do, and I still have mine.”

He turns toward the door, and you rush to meet him before he finishes the all too short walk across your office.  These abrupt goodbyes better not be an ingrained habit of his.

“Keats-” you catch your breath as he turns to face you with an unreadable expression, far closer than you'd been prepared for.  Again, you feel that surge of anxiety and intrigue that he seems to so easily provoke.  You rally yourself, and blurt out, 

“Is- is Keats your real name?”

He looks at you strangely with his hand still lingering on the door handle. 

“The only one I've ever used.”

“And no, like… last name or anything?”

Again, he pauses, but this time he turns back to you fully and takes his hand from the door.

“Why the sudden interrogation?”

“I'm just…” you shrug, “curious about you, that's all.”

“Well I'm certainly in no place to fault anyone for curiosity,” he says, “How about this:  When this issue goes to print, you'll get your interview.  But only if I'm satisfied with the final draft.”

“Deal,” you reply firmly before adding, “But do you think you could ever try to come by at a normal time? Like, work hours instead of the middle of the night?” 

He pushes up his glasses, his expression utterly unmoved.

“I do my best work at night.  Besides, from my perspective, this has been going fabulously.  I even have a feeling I'm closing in on a story of my own.  Now then,” he turns from you, “until next time.”

You’re left utterly deflated, watching the closed door and listening to his receding footsteps.  Truly amazing.  Not only had he completely rebuffed your attempts at demystifying him, but he had dodged your questions so deftly that you were only left with more of them than ever.  What reason could he have for being so evasive?  A laundry list of worst-case-scenarios comes to mind, and with no possibility of simply looking him up online with that name of his, your imagination runs wild.  Still, he had made you a deal.  Meet his expectations, and you’ll get an “interview” in exchange- whatever that might mean to him in particular.  You don’t even need to consider it.  You’ve already made up your mind.  You’ll revive Unknown Realms no matter what, and you’ll get some answers out of your enigmatic editor along the way.

The following night, when you open your door to him, your face is lit up in a determined smile.

“Hey!  Come on, let me show you what I’ve got.”

You think you hear him let out a low chuckle, but when you glance over your shoulder at him, his expression is as opaque as ever.  He heads toward the kettle on your dresser, but you usher him back toward your laptop.

“I’ll get the tea, you read.”

He holds his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright.  My, someone’s feeling motivated.”

“How could I not be?” you say as you root around for the mugs and teabags, “I’m closer than ever to printing, and you’ll finally have to tell me about yourself.”

“That remains to be seen,” he replies, never taking his eyes off the words on your screen.

With nights and weeks, the issue 1 draft transforms and evolves, and strangely, your office-home does with it.  The mug that had been the sole survivor of its set after your last move has now become the mug put aside for Keats, and you keep an extra supply of the tea he prefers, now that you’re running through it so quickly.  The spare chair is his too, and at some point you even thrift a cushion for it.  The tiny couch you’d just barely managed to fit up the stairs and into this office some time ago rests against the wall perpendicular to your desk, but is now adorned with a small stack of old Unknown Realms issues, which Keats has taken to flipping through while he waits for you to read over his notes or revise your draft.  While he doesn't come every single evening, even your sleep schedule has adjusted to accommodate his late night visits.

“You can't take this long for every issue,” he tells you one night about two weeks in.

“I know,” you say with a sigh, “but it's the first issue, it needs to be perfect.  Plus, we've come up with plenty of concepts for future articles along the way, so it will only get easier from here, right?”

True to his nature, rather than offering any kind of reassurance, he presses further.

“How do you plan to serialize and distribute this moving forward?”

“Well- I,” you halt only briefly, “I had planned to print full issues once a month and start with local fairs, conventions, independent shops and whatnot.  Between issues, there would be digital articles sent out weekly via an email subscription list.  There's actually been a good amount of interest in that on some of the forums I've been following, so I think that will help keep readership a bit more consistent.”

To your surprise, Keats has no comment on this.  

A few days later, after nearly a month of work together, Keats sits in your chair at your desk and reads through what you intend to be the final draft.  The moment of reckoning has arrived.  You're pretending to clean and tidy the place a bit, aimlessly moving a few objects around and wiping off surfaces.  In truth, you're awaiting his judgement with baited breath.  You swear he’s never read this slowly before, and just when you’re beginning to think he’s dragging this out on purpose, he sits back.

“Not bad.”

It’s nearly insulting, barely better than saying nothing at all.  But from Keats, you know the significance of this tepid approval.  A grin spreads across your face and you approach him with your arms crossed.

“Not bad?”  you repeat.

“Passable by any measure of standards, yes,” he replies, stoic as ever.  You laugh and roll your eyes openly at him.

“You really are a flatterer.  But I know that ‘not bad’ is high praise coming from you.  So, you think it’s ready to print?”

“I do,” he says as he rises from your chair, the smallest hint of a smile gracing his lips, “Congratulations.”

You clasp your hands together at your chest.

“Oh my God it’s finally happening- we gotta celebrate!  Damn, I wish I had something for us to drink- well, something more exciting than tea, anyway.”

To your surprise, Keats looks interested in the proposition, running a thoughtful hand along his chin. 

“I might have a lead on that,” he says, and begins heading for the door, “Wait here.  Better yet, why don’t you start preparing your questions for our interview?  You’ll have to get used to that sort of thing sooner rather than later anyway.” 

You laugh and move your hands to your hips.

“I almost expected you to try to duck out on that interview idea.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he replies simply, before heading out the door.  Your stomach is positively twirling with excitement- finally, after years of dreaming, ideating and preparations followed by months of research and writing, you’re on the cusp of a new life for Unknown Realms.  Tomorrow, you’ll triple-check the margins, formatting and so-on and head to the print shop.  For now, however, Keats was right- you should get your questions ready for him.  You hate to imagine how ruthless he’ll be if you go into this unprepared.  Setting up his chair facing yours beside the desk, you begin scribbling down your ideas furiously on your notepad while you await his return.

By the time he arrives with a bottle and two glasses in hand, you realize that you've been so focused on your task that you hadn’t thought to question where exactly he was headed at this time of night.  Perhaps he knows some all-night liquor store nearby, or has a friend in the area.  Though the thought of Keats acting chummy with just about anyone feels downright foreign.

As he sets everything on your desk and begins pouring a generous glass for each of you, you can't help but ask,

“Where did you even get that at this hour?”  

“An associate of mine who tends a bar,” he replies, as ever leaving out any illuminating details, “I’d initially requested whiskey, but when I asked for two glasses, he insisted on wine.”

“Keats,” you say with audible frustration, “He definitely thinks you were bringing this for some sort of… romantic rendezvous, or something!”

Keats shrugs, and corks the bottle.

“He may think what he likes.”

You barely bite back an agitated noise, though there’s nothing you can do about the warm flush across your cheeks.  You suspect he notices as well, but other than his typical smug grin, he makes no comment.  Regardless, you take your drink and try a sip.  It catches you off-guard, at first.  There’s a spice to the start of it, but the rich depth of the flavor that follows compels you to keep bringing it to your lips.  You glance at the time on your laptop, and to your surprise, it’s not even past 1am yet.  Plenty of time to grill Keats for everything he’ll give you.  He takes his seat across from you, and of course you’d misjudged the sort of space his taller frame requires, so while you’re sitting just a little strangely close to one another, the last thing you want to do is draw attention to it.  Instead, you click ‘record’ on your maybe-pirated audio software and face him, saying,

“So, should we begin?”

Keats gestures broadly, glass in hand.

“By all means.”

“Why don’t we start with an introduction?  For the benefit of our dear readers, of course,” you add, proud of the subtle amused smile this earns you, “You know, name, age, occupation- basic stuff.”

“Keats, twenty seven, journalist and, due to some extenuating circumstances, acting editor for the newly resuscitated Unknown Realms magazine.” 

You would have guessed he’d be a little older, but maybe that’s just an effect of his prickly personality and terrible posture.  For now, you move on.

“And where are you from, originally?”

He takes a long draft from his wine glass, then leans back in his seat and rests an arm on the desk beside him, settling in like a stretching cat.

“Doolin,” he says.

“Doolin?” you frown, certain you’ve heard of this place before, “Isn’t that the little ghost town where those murders happened not long ago?  Some… girl with a knife and a big conspiracy and everything.”

This had been the talk of the occultist forums online for weeks.  Apparently the tiny village has a henge of some kind nearby, and if there’s one thing conspiracy theorists adore, it’s strange configurations of rocks.  Even more so when something grizzly happens nearby.  

“The very same.”

Your frown only deepens, but this time twists with curiosity.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Doolin.”

“I’ve traveled a fair bit,” Keats says, “Confuses the accent, over time.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you nod and sip your wine, then move directly into your next line of questions, “What about, like… family?  Friends?”

“That’s pretty broad,” he gives you a disapproving look over his glasses, “You’ll have to guide the subject of your interview a little better than that.”

“Fine, okay,” while you roll your eyes at him, he does have a point, “Just your parents, then.  What are they like?  Did they support you becoming a writer?”

“That’s better.  Relevant, specific, and guided.  As for my parents, anyone who could lay claim to the title has been dead for some time.  Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t seem sorry.  If anything, he seems bizarrely flippant about it all.  You nearly instinctively apologize for bringing it up, but he makes it so evident that this topic carries no emotional impact for him that you figure it’s not necessary.  Yet even as you pause to consider your next question, you can’t help the nagging sensation that he’s been phrasing his answers in very specific ways.  Granted, it’s unusual for him to be this cooperative to begin with.  Perhaps you're simply not accustomed to the sound of Keats actually communicating.  But you wouldn’t be surprised if there’s far more lingering in the spaces between his words than he’s letting on.

“Well, why don’t we circle back to your work, then?” you cross off a few more personal-life questions from your notes and continue, “Tell me about the publication you write for.”

He crosses one leg loosely over the other, sips his wine, and says,

“As I've mentioned, it’s quite similar to your own.  An occult magazine, devoted to exploring and investigating the so-called supernatural.  My readers are quite a particular bunch.  I’m sure you won’t mind if I leave at that, for the sake of their interests.” It seems odd for him to act so deferential to anyone else’s interests, but frankly you wouldn't even know how to press him further on this point.

“You say the ‘so-called supernatural.’” you repeat his words, looking inquisitively at him from over your wine glass.

“Of course,” he says, “The truly supernatural has no basis in fact.  All I have ever seen evidence for is what we understand now and what we work towards understanding.  That is all.  With time, all things that seem beyond our comprehension now will be illuminated by higher reasoning.”

“Hm,” you pause to consider this, lingering on your next sip of wine as Keats finishes his glass and begins to pour another.  It’s not written in your notes, but another question comes to mind.

“Have you ever had a supernatural experience?” he looks about to comment, but you quickly add, “Or something that your own reasoning couldn’t explain in full, anyway.”

To your surprise, he says without pause,

“I have.  But that is why any true reporter must keep digging for the facts.  Nothing is wholly irrational once one understands the mechanisms at play.  And what about you?  Would you say you've ever had an unexplainable encounter?”

You hadn’t expected him to turn your question on you.  Finishing your own drink with a contented exhale, you hold out your glass for a refill and say,

“Well, recently this mysterious rude man keeps walking into my office in the middle of the night and then leaving abruptly."

At this, Keats does give a short laugh, and the rare sound causes a strange twinge in your chest.

“And here you are, gathering evidence and developing theories.  Commendable, really,” he leans forward in his seat, resting an elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, “I wonder what hypotheses you’ve come up with so far?” he levels his cunning eyes on you, the uneven glare across his glasses revealing just enough to allow you feel the pressure of his gaze.  Glass full once again, you drink deeply before saying,

“You’ve got the vampire aesthetic down, what with the…” you gesture vaguely in his direction, “The paleness and the cheekbones and all- not to mention a completely nocturnal lifestyle.  But you’re not nearly suave enough for that.”

“Immortal blood suckers are among the more absurd fabrications of mankind’s imagination anyway,” he replies, seemingly having taken no offense whatsoever, “What else have you considered?”

“Well, then I thought you might be a ghost or spirit of some kind.”

“That’s a rather broad category.  Not very helpful, as far as investigative journalism goes.”

You give a half shrug of agreement, and add,

“But you’re fully capable of touching and  interacting with objects, so-” “A great many types of spirits are said to manipulate the physical world,” he says with a wave of his hand, “think of poltergeists and the like.” He places his near finished drink on your desk and watches your expressions with evident amusement.  Your eyes narrow at him as you consider the argument presented.

“But I've never touched you.  How do I know those instances haven't been illusions?”

Keats holds a hand out to you.  For a moment, you just stare at it dumbly.

“Here,” he says, taking your free hand in his and holding it between you rather pointedly, “As corporeal as can be, wouldn’t you agree?”

You want to answer, but you only manage a nod and a quick “Uh-huh.”  Sure enough, he appears to be flesh and bone.  When you expect him to let go, he instead pulls you closer, urging you to roll your desk chair towards him as he guides your touch to him.  He brings your hand to the side of his neck, where you can feel his warm skin and steady pulse beneath your fingertips.  You can only hope that he can’t feel yours racing in reply.

“My temperature and heartbeat are normal as well,” he says, then releases you, “So I’m clearly no revenant or walking corpse of any kind.” 

“Ye- yeah…” you draw your hand back, cradling your drink with both now.  He seems to expect another guess, but he’s so thoroughly scattered your thoughts that it’s a struggle to piece together anything to say.  Eventually, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Maybe… a fae. Of some kind.”

“Brilliant.  Local Mystery Man Probably a Fae of Some Kind.  Now that's the kind of material that inspires reader confidence.”

“Well I don't know, there's like a billion of them!” Left with a cluster of writhing and confused feelings, you channel the flustered heat in your body into faux-exasperation, “You’re probably one of the ones that likes to make deals with mortals and offer them something they want, then surprise them later with some horrible unforeseen consequence.”

Keats picks up his drink once more, but doesn't move away from you, leaving you both to linger with your legs nearly touching. 

“Ahh, I see.  So I'm luring you to your inevitable doom with seductive promises of professional editorial work.”

Your eyes flicker down to his lips, curled into a teasing smile.  The restlessness in your chest feels like a harbinger of things to come.

“Seems pretty likely to me,” you say, your voice coming a little weaker than you'd expected.  You're both quiet for a moment, second helpings of wine having come and gone easily amidst your conversation.  Perhaps you should have paced yourself a little better; the lull of alcohol and the strain of weeks of work are causing your mind to wander to strange places.  Places like the sharp corner of Keats' jawline, and the window of skin revealed where the top buttons of his shirt are left carelessly open.  Dangerous places.

“Keep up the investigation, Y/N,” he says at last, jostling you from your thoughts, “I have a feeling you’ll get your answers eventually, whether I like it or not.  Any further questions?” he adds.  You look down at the list of notes in your lap.  Regrettably, all you have left are questions he’s already at least partly answered, or ones that now seem utterly irrelevant.  You glance at the active recording on your laptop screen, then back at Keats, and say,

“What, exactly, is your interest in reviving Unknown Realms?”

At this, he pauses, hesitant in a way you’ve never seen from him.  In what seems like an obvious stalling tactic, he finishes his drink and sets the glass down.  Then, at last, he replies,

“You were not the only child enthralled and inspired by tales of fantastical possibilities.”

You wait for him to elaborate.  He doesn’t.  You finish your wine as well and, voice wavering just slightly, say,

“Well, uh- any final comments for our readers?”

“No, that will do,” he says, then stands and drags his chair back to its home in the corner by your desk.  You put aside your notes and stand as well, and as you watch him fuss with his tie and brush off his coat, one final question occurs to you that has nothing to do with your interview.  You step towards him tentatively, and you know he can tell that there’s something on your mind.  He says nothing, but looks at you a little impatiently. 

“So,” you begin slowly, fighting to ignore the painful knot in your chest, “what happens next?  We never really talked about our…” you wave a hand around aimlessly, “arrangement.  Once we start printing, will you still… be around?”

His lips tighten into a line, and once more his hands return to his coat pockets.

“I do have my own work to attend to, you know.” 

“I know!  I wasn’t trying to-”

“Just keep at it, Y/N.  I’ll know when you need me.”

The pub around the corner is as typical as they come.  Worn-in wood tones work alongside the old hanging light fixtures to give the place a cozy ambiance, which is both accented and contrasted by a few televisions hastily mounted on the walls- one behind the bar, a few others in far corners of the seating area.  Some small decorative details make vague gestures at respectability; fake candles on tables and a hanging rack of far more elegant and completely unused glasses above the bar.  But with a game on one screen, local news on another, and the constant rumble of weekend revellers all around you, it’s clear that no one is here for a romantic night out.   Including, of course, the tall figure seated beside you.

Amongst a typical crowd of bar-goers on a Saturday night, Keats looks like a piece swapped in from an entirely different puzzle.  It’s no one particular thing about him, more the whole collage of strange details that join to form him.  His angular features, as ever partly obscured by curtains of hair and the lenses of his spectacles.  His hunched posture, oddly fitted clothes and the vibrant coat hanging around his frame.  Yet the part of him monopolizing your attention at the moment is his hands.  You’ve taken notice of them before, on the rare occasions he’s cared to use your keyboard directly for an edit, always hesitating noticeably before placing his fingers on the keys.  His unfamiliarity with modern technology is one of his surprising ‘cute’ qualities, of which there are exceedingly few- but it had given you the chance to admire his long fingers and meticulously kept nails.  More than once, your eyes have followed the path of a vein from his hand up his forearm, as though you could feel him beneath your fingertips if you just stared hard enough.  At the same time, you wouldn’t call his movements or gestures graceful necessarily, but precise.  That carries its own appeal, and all the more so in the days since the kiss you’ve found impossible to push from your thoughts. 

You watch him raise his glass of whiskey to his lips, and resolve, as you have many times now, to allow yourself the occasional admiring glance, but to maintain composure.  By your own metric, you’ve been doing a commendable job.  Seated at the far end of the bar with just enough distance from its rowdiest patrons to hear one another, you’ve passed the time exchanging musings about various legends, tales and potential stories.  

“Come to think of it, isn’t Keats the guy who had a magic duel with Allister Crowley?  That could be a good story.”

“That would be Yeats,” he replies curtly, setting down his glass.  You shrug, tracing a finger around the rim of your own drink.  Largely because you know it will irritate him, you say,

“Hm, same difference.”

Keats rolls his eyes, obviously wise to your intent.

“Don’t besmirch my namesake like that,” he says, “Besides, you’re nearly a century off.  John Keats was long dead by the time of that ridiculous farce.” 

“True,” you let your gaze wander past the bar, scanning vaguely across rows of liquor bottles and glassware, “Still, could make for an interesting piece, don’t you think?”

“An amusing one, perhaps, if you’re careful not to bruise your readers’ egos.  It doesn’t exactly paint a flattering image of those fixated on the occult.  As I recall, it ended with Crowley kicked down a flight of stairs,” as an afterthought, he mutters, “shame it didn’t manage to knock any sense into him.”

You laugh, side eyeing him as he drinks.

“Not a fan, huh?”

“Of a deluded hedonist? No, I wouldn't say so.”

One of the other patrons, a broad fellow who must be at least as drunk as he is loud, shoulders past Keats on his way to the bar for his next round.  With an irritable huff, Keats slides his seat closer to yours and does his best to ignore the blustering man until he’s wandered back to his friends at their table.  Strangely, you catch yourself smiling at the all-too-mundane interaction.  You find you still often wonder if Keats is some sort of phantom or apparition- or worse, a hallucination brought on by chronic stress or carbon monoxide.  Seeing him here, in this ordinary bar among ordinary people, is somewhat reassuring.  

The newly closed distance between you is conspicuous, but he doesn’t comment on it, nor rectify the situation.  Instead, he turns toward you with an elbow resting on the bar.  

“Any other ideas?” when you look up at him, he’s eyeing you with the same direct, unwavering stare he wears while reviewing your writing, “What else has been on your mind lately?”

You.

“Uhm, well,” your stomach flutters, but you reach for the first thing that comes to you, “ever since you mentioned being from Doolin, I’ve been sort of casually looking into that incident with the murders and all.”

He gives a contemplative hum.

“And what have you found?  Not many of the finer details made it to print, at least in any mainstream publications.”

“Yeah, there’s not much publicly available,” you say with a sigh.  Keats takes a long sip from his glass and watches you as you go on, “The perpetrator wasn’t even eighteen at the time, so even though she gave herself up to the authorities, most information about her hasn’t been made public.  Aside from which, since she’s so young, there’s no way she had anything to do directly with the last bout of murders the town saw.  Strange place.  I wonder if being so isolated makes people start acting up,” you give Keats a slanted smirk and add, “Maybe that’s why you’re such a weirdo.”

Keats mirrors your grin.

“Maybe so.” 

“Anyway, there’s just as little information about the victims.  There are names and occupations- a doctor and a retired actress.  But the town is so insular, and there are so few people left to offer any insight…” you let your sentence trail off, noticing his brows creasing slightly.  He sees your inquisitive look and says,

“There was no mention of a third death?  A woman named Regine?”

“Not in any of the reports I found.”

“Hm,” he lets his glass linger near his lips, but doesn’t drink, clearly mulling something over.  Eventually, he mutters, “I suppose that makes sense.  They never found another killer, and there would be no motive to pin that one on Suzette, so they’d rather keep it quiet.”

“Wait,” you lean forward, no longer self conscious in the slightest about your proximity to him, “You know something about it.”

“Trying to poach my story?” he says coyly.  You cross your arms.

“Hey, you were the one who said we have different audiences, and that we wouldn’t be stepping on each other’s toes.” 

“Fine, fine,” Keats pauses to finish his drink and push aside the glass.  There’s something on his mind again, you can tell, but at first he only says, “It would be near impossible to explain it all without…”

“What?”

His dark teal eyes meet you in the warm half light of the bar, and he says,

“Come to Doolin with me.” 

“What?” you repeat more emphatically.

If anything, Keats seems surprised to have to explain himself.  He pauses and quirks an eyebrow at you, then says,

“You want to know the truth, right?  I recognize that curiosity all over your face.  I can explain everything- but it will be easier for you to see some things with your own eyes.  Aside from which,” his eyes narrow slightly behind his glasses, and he regards you with a weighty look that makes you feel a bit tangled inside, “I have some questions I’d like answered as well, and I have a feeling I’ll need you there to get to the bottom of it.”

Your lips tighten, and you sigh through your nose.  Perhaps your drink has emboldened you, as you find you don’t have it in you to suppress this surge of impatience tonight. 

“You’re being vague again.  When and how would we even get there?  How would I keep up with my work?  And what sort of questions do you need me for?”

He waves his hand dismissively, saying,

“Wait until after your next issue releases, if you must.  I have my own means of travel, but for your benefit, we’ll take the ferry.  And you can bring your computer with you- it’s a small town, but it’s not as though they don’t have electricity.  You know well enough that I wouldn’t even suggest something like this if there were a chance of it jeopardizing your work.”

This, at least, you know to be entirely true.  The noise of the pub around you has picked up as the night wears on and drinks come and go.  Leaning close to be heard, Keats says,

“As for my own investigation, that’s strictly confidential, for now.  What sort of reporter would go spilling a story before it’s done?” he must see the displeasure on your face.  The expression he gives you in turn is unexpectedly soft, though not even quite a smile, “You’ll have to get some experience with field work eventually anyway, and an on-site investigation will go over great with your readers.  Plus, I’ll be there.”

He states this as though it should tell you everything you need to know, answer any further questions.  Regrettably, it is compelling.  You try to focus instead on his first point- that this would win over readers -and you know he’s right.  If you want to present yourself as a serious journalist, as someone who will seek the truth and present it plainly, few things could be more convincing than working on-site.  The final swig of your drink lends you the courage to finally nod, placing down your glass with a declarative clunk.

“Alright,” you say, then level your gaze at Keats, “But once you have your story, I want to hear it, start to finish.”

At this, he actually does smile, just a little.

“Believe me,” he pauses, eyes flickering down for a moment- at what, you’re not certain, “When I have the answers to all of my questions, you will be the first to know.” 

Keats walks you home to your office apartment that night.  You don’t ask him to, and he doesn’t offer.  Rather, he simply follows along at your side, hands in his pockets and eyes aimed straight ahead.  Your mind wanders a little as you walk.  In some of your more indulgent or deluded moments, you imagine a romantic farewell.  You picture him lingering at the door to your place, stealing a few more moments together in the cool night.  You picture him bringing a hand to your cheek, leaning close and placing a long, slow kiss to your lips.  This, obviously, does not come to pass.  Instead, he sends you off with instructions.

“I’ll come get you the day after you send out the next issue,” he says matter-of-factly, “Frankly, I’ve no idea how long it will take to get you your story in full, so bring as much clothing as you can fit in a single bag.  Though, if my suspicions are correct, you could return by…” he trails off and shakes his head, “that won’t make any sense to you just yet.  Ah, well.  Just prepare to be away for at least a couple of weeks, let’s say.  Oh, and pack lightly.  Neither the journey, nor the accommodations will be luxurious.”

“Got it,” you say with a firm nod, hoping to camouflage the flurry of nerves in your chest.  He turns half way from you, and you begin fishing your key from your pockets, when he halts and adds,

“Oh, and one more thing.” 

You hate to admit the way your heart latches on to the hope of another moment with him.  Keats draws something from his coat pocket- another bunch of folded up papers.  You realize this must be more of his own writing, and your eyebrows rise.

“You seemed to enjoy the last one,” he says, offering the pages to you.  You take them silently, already eager to secret them away to your office and pour over his words.  But there’s something you’ve been wondering ever since the last time he gave you a copy of his work.

“Do you… type out these copies for me?  Like, by hand?”

It would only make sense.  He had said he uses a typewriter, and the now-familiar font on these pages attests to it.  You have a hard time imagining Keats possessing the patience to do battle with the average printer-copier anyway.  While he must use some sort of print shop to distribute his own publication, that would be out of his way for something small like this.  His glasses reflect the pale glow of a nearby streetlight as he flatly says,

“It’s not as though it takes much time.” 

“Right.  Well, thank you,” you smile warmly at him, and he pushes his glasses up his pointed nose. 

“It’s really nothing,” he says, though the weary note in his voice sounds distinctly performative, “It’s a selfish desire anyway.  I’ve found that I enjoy it when you read my work, that’s all.” 

Your chest tightens, and your face burns feverishly at this, but if Keats notices your flustered expression, he doesn’t stay long enough to comment.  He turns away, leaving you gazing blankly at the slope of his shoulders and the flutter of his coat behind him.  As he grows more and more distant, a ghostly figure illuminated in the washed out streetlights, you wonder idly if you’ll ever get used to the moment the spell breaks.  When the weight of his stare lifts from you, and you’re released from your fixation on his moods, his thoughts, his bearing and his countless fae-like quirks.  It’s only when you imagine the humiliation of him turning to see you still watching him that you collect yourself, clear your throat, and fumble your key into the lock.

You clutch the pages of Keats’ article to your chest all the way up the stairs, through the door of your office and into your closet-bedroom.  The open laptop on your desk calls to you with a little pang of guilt in your belly.  Thoughts of your trip to Doolin are flooding your mind, but your next issue’s publication stands in your path, looming now like a colossal beast before you.  Still, there’s no way you can focus on Unknown Realms right now.  Who knows- perhaps reading your mysterious editor’s work will illuminate something for you, cause some spark of inspiration to carry forth into your next piece.  That’s a good excuse.  And so, you undress haphazardly, then flop down onto your cot and eagerly unfold the papers.