Chapter 03

strange delight

There’s something thrilling about planning a break-in. Of your own house. Where nothing will get broken. And nothing will be taken. Okay, so sneaking in isn’t the same thing as breaking in. Whatever. ‘Planning a sneak-in’ doesn’t sound as cool.

I meet my co-conspirator behind the library. He’s still wearing his fairy wings and holding his cloak. Something about that makes me fall more in love with him.

I mean… think he’s adorable. Yeah, that.

I’m carrying my hat and the extra blanket. I’d asked Mom and Dad if they could keep an eye out for my hook because I’d lost it sometime during the night’s dancing, but said that if they couldn’t find it, I’d check the Lost and Found in the morning. They’d agreed, and I’d felt like I’d expertly deflected attention away from my going home before midnight, and toward the missing, critical piece of my costume, which I may choose to reprise some future Halloween.

Without the hat (which I know I’ll have off as often as on) and hook, I’d be less of a pirate and more of a Shakespearean stage performer or something.

As I approach him, ear-guy unfolds his cloak from his arm and holds it up like he wants me to wear it again. I smile bashfully as I approach.

“Sure you don’t need it?” I ask. “Getting pretty chilly, and I can wear this blanket.”

“I feel fine,” he says. “Although I would feel better, were I to know you are kept warm. By my cloak, for example.”

“Well,” I say with a slight shrug, “it is warmer. Softer, too.”

“Made from the finest materials I can work,” he says proudly.

“You made this?” I ask. “Impressive. Though not surprising.”

He smiles and elegantly swings the cloak around me, settling it on my shoulders and making me feel like a member of the Nine Walkers. Except Galadriel is now a super-hot dude with a horse-mane hairstyle.

Nothing against Cate Blanchett, though, of course.

He fastens the tie at my neck and pulls the hood up, settling it on my head so I still have some peripheral vision. He smiles as he looks me over.

“What’s that grin for?” I ask him, smiling.

“You look resplendent in my cloak,” he says.

Now that’s a juicy, five-cent word that makes me feel like a million dollars.

He takes my hat and blanket and holds them in one arm so he can take my hand in his.

It’s probably the first time I’ve publicly held the hand of a boy I like since… probably first grade, with Jake, when ‘like’ didn’t mean the same thing. So excuse me if it makes my heart race.

Spoiler alert, it totally does, no ifs about it.

We start walking, and I lead us toward the path I always take. The way I figure it, no one we might pass in town knows that I’m not supposed to be taking him home.

Or that I like him, beyond enough to hold his hand and wear his cloak when it’s chilly out.

What they don’t know can’t hurt me. And now that I look like a fantasy protagonist instead of a pirate, it’s possible they won’t even know it’s me.

Possible.

Still, I take the path that doesn’t lead me right beside Jake’s place. I’d rather not tempt fate tonight. She’s already given me more than I probably deserve, letting me have one night with someone who seems to like me back.

“So, we can probably go in through the front door, since everyone’s still out,” I say. “Not sure how well that’ll work for when you have to leave, but my window’s big enough to get through. I’ve done it a few times.”

“That will be fine,” he says.

I want to know how long he can stay, but I’m sure any answer he could give would be far too early for me. For a few moments, I entertain images of falling asleep in his arms.

I have so many things I want to say, but none of them seem worth it to break the comfortable quiet between us, my hand in his, his cloak keeping me warm. Even his fairy wings seem to be respecting the silence, hardly even squeaking as we walk.

But what if the quiet isn’t comfortable to him? I’m familiar with it, but he’s not from around here. Maybe he’s from a way more urban place, and he’s really uncomfortable. Maybe he’s hoping I come up with something to talk about.

“So, you’re not going to attack me and rob me once we get to my place, are you?” I ask. Casually. Conversationally. “Because I’d hate to have to call the cops on a night like tonight.”

“Why would I attack you?” he asks. He sounds almost horrified by the mere thought of it.

“Oh, because you’re a stranger and I find you too perfect to be real. Clearly, you must be taking advantage of me.” I smile up at him and see the mournful expression on his face.

Oh no.

“I’m joking!” I say in a rush. “I’m joking. Well, not about the ‘perfect’ part, but… Oh man, that joke not only crashed and burned, it tunneled straight to magma, didn’t it?”

“I do not wish you to be worried,” he says. “If you would rather, I could stay outside, with or without you.”

“Oh my goodness, no,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry for my bad joke; I felt like I needed to say something. It was so quiet, and…”

He waits for a moment while I spend a few seconds not finishing the sentence.

“…And?” he prompts. “Is the quiet unpleasant to you?”

I look at him and walk a bit closer, so I can hold his elbow with my free hand. “Not when it’s with you,” I admit. “It’s a habit, I suppose.”

“It is… less quiet here than I expected,” he says thoughtfully.

Probably not from a city, then. Unless he thought all small towns are completely silent.

“That’s because it’s Witching Week, I promise. Most of the year, it’s practically lights-out by like eight in the evening. Nine during summer break!”

As if it’s impressive for anything to be open that extra hour when no one has school, and sunset isn’t until after eight.

“Sometimes,” I continue, because apparently I can’t stop talking, “I open my window a crack, close my door, and pile on the blankets so I can hear some owls or crickets or frogs or something. So it isn’t so quiet.”

“I like the quiet,” he says, “because it allows me to better hear my favorite sound.”

“Yeah?” I prompt. “What’s that?”

He hums. “It is better heard than described, I think.”

“Fair enough,” I say, even though my curiosity is piqued. “I think one of my favorite sounds is… tires swishing through rain as a car passes by. Or, I suppose, rain falling on something. Rooftops, puddles, cars…”

“Do you like the sound of the rain but not the feeling?” he asks, his voice filled with curiosity. Interest, maybe.

“Being in rain is fine if it’s not too cold, I suppose, but I don’t like getting chilled to the bone and shivering for forever afterward. But,” I say, “if I had a nice warm fire to warm up with, or…”

“Someone to warm you in their arms?” he suggests.

“…Someone to hold me,” I agree, “then the cold weather wouldn’t be so bad.”

“You do seem prone to chill,” he says softly, rubbing his thumb along my index finger.

“I normally wear more layers in the autumn,” I assure him, “but on Halloween, well, one must suffer for one’s art, must one not?”

“Indeed one must,” he says, laughter bubbling through.

I lean my head on his shoulder and match my steps to his. Sure, it’s slightly awkward, since his legs are longer than mine, but it feels nice, anyway.

“You know,” I say, “for not being enclosed at all, this thing is pretty dang warm.”

“I am glad you enjoy it,” he says. Then he rests his cheek against the top of my head, and I can’t hide the smile on my face.

We walk in comfortable silence, listening to the distant, echoing sounds of the bonfire festival behind us and the nocturnal forest sounds that drift in from all around.

“Here we are,” I say as we approach my house. Three bedrooms *and three bathrooms, two with showers, one of which is in Mom and Dad’s room. “I know I said front door, but I figure the garage is close enough.”

I lead him to the side of the garage door where I open the cover of the keypad and enter the code to open the door. It trundles up slowly, noisily, and I wait, giving his hand a squeeze before letting it go. Not because I’m done touching him, but because I don’t want to come across as too commanding. We’re about to be inside, where it’s plenty warm, and he has the freedom to wander as he will, or leave if he wants to.

I hope he doesn’t want to leave anytime soon.

Once the garage door is up, I grin and lead him in through the garage. I push the button on the wall by the door into the pantry to close the door again, and watch it to make sure Sunset doesn’t run through it. She’s an indoor/outdoor cat, and sometimes refuses to use her cat door because going through the garage is somehow better. Cats, am I right?

Once it’s fully closed, I have to stop myself from leaning forward and kissing him. It would be easy to reach him from my perch on the top step, just inside the pantry door. I could do it so easily. All it would take is a few more inches…

But I don’t. I shouldn’t. Because first, we haven’t kissed, and second, we aren’t in a relationship that does kissing.

Yet.

At all, I remind myself, because he’s leaving.

But long-distance can work sometimes, I argue with myself.

I end the debate before it picks up too much steam by opening the door. “Need anything before we go to my room?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“You sure?” I press gently as I walk through the pantry and into the kitchen. “I’m gonna get myself a glass of water.”

He smiles. “Very well, I will have some water.”

And, again, I want to kiss him. Walk right over, or wait where I am for him to come over, and reach up on the balls of my feet and kiss him. Maybe on the cheek. I bet his cheeks are as soft as the shadows his cheekbones cast on them.

“Right!” I say, hoping I wasn’t giving him a dopey smile for too long. “Two waters, coming up.”

I get two plastic tumblers from the cupboard and fill them with the filtered water from the freezer door. I sip from one while I offer the other to him.

“So,” I say. “Shall we retire to my chambers, then, good sir?”

He smiles. “Do you mock me?”

“Not at all!” I insist. “I do that to everyone. Sometimes I like sounding elegant.”

“You think I sound elegant, then?” he asks.

“Very.”

He chuckles and drinks some of his water. “Mm… Delicious, thank you.”

I grin and tilt my head toward the hallway my bedroom is down. “This way,” I say before starting to move. He follows me and I feel a sort of thrill, knowing he’s watching me, even when I’m not watching him. I open my door and turn the light on, then stand out of the way, holding it open for him. “You can sit on the bed if you want, or at my desk. Wherever you’d like.”

“What would you like with…?” he asks softly as he looks down at my tricorne and the blanket.

“Right! Here…” I go over to my desk and set my glass on the waterproof pad that I mostly use as a huge coaster. I then go to him and take the hat, setting it casually atop my head so I can take the blanket. I unbundle it and shake it out, then fold it. “I can go and put this in the hutch, since it probably has grass on it… It’s only really used for picnics, until the autumn cleaning spree Mom likes doing. Then it’s all about lap-warming.”

As I speak, he slowly walks to my bed, like he wants to help me fold the blanket but doesn’t know how to offer. And I’m nearly done before I come to that conclusion.

“Seriously, make yourself at home,” I say. “The bathroom’s the door right across from mine”—I point with my chin out through my open door—“and you saw where to get more water…” I finish folding the blanket and hold it under one arm. “And if you’re hungry, I could snag something to munch on.”

“I am fine,” he says as he sits on the edge of my bed. “Though if you would like something, please do not feel like I am intruding.”

“That’s not at all how I feel,” I say with soft laughter. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna close the door in case anyone comes home, but that probably won’t happen during the twenty seconds I’m gone.”

He nods and chuckles slightly. “Go ahead.”

I smile at him and leave, closing my door on the way out.

I have a boy in my room.

I have a man in my room.

Oh, man, how old is he? I have no idea. That wasn’t one of the things we talked about, and nothing he’s said has given me any sort of indication.

Okay, but what does that matter? We aren’t going to be doing anything inappropriate. And besides, how likely is it that he’s younger than me? Pretty low, unless he looks way older than he is. And I’m older than most people in my classes, since I sort of started school late, considering my whole adoption thing. I’m not sure why I started a year older than Rain did. Maybe I was in an accident. Maybe I was in an accident shortly before or after being adopted? Who knows. Well, probably my parents, at least.

But, anyway, it’s not like we’re going to do anything more than watching the movie. Well… maybe kissing. If he’s feeling it, too.

Oh, jeez. This is when those sex-ed posts online would be telling me to clarify my boundaries: before I get too involved to think clearly. Okay, um…

I’m gonna keep my pants on. I think that’ll be easy. Try to keep his on, too.

I’m back at my room before I can think much on the topic, blanket tucked away in the hutch. Or maybe the oven; who knows, with how distracted I was. (I don’t think I’ve ever accidentally put something in the oven, though. Fridge, yes. Microwave, also yes, though luckily I didn’t start it. But no oven. At least not yet.)

I lick my lips, swallow, and go back in, closing the door behind me. “Back,” I say.

Obviously, I’m back; that was kind of pointless.

He smiles, though, and it makes me feel charming, rather than clueless.

I go to my desk and open my laptop, letting it hum itself out of sleep. Then I pull my boots off, letting them lie flat on their sides.

“What is that?” he asks. When I look back at him, I notice that he took his fairy wings off and set them on the floor by the foot of my bed.

“An Asus,” I answer. “Forget the model number, but I got it last… summer, I think?” I take off my rings and start a little pile on my desk. Except I leave on the skull ring. That one’s pretty cool. It can stay. Then I remove the clip-on earrings, and I twist the necklaces around to undo them. They’re added to the pile, which will probably be one giant tangle by morning.

He nods in my peripheral vision and drinks some water. Once I’m sufficiently dejeweled, I pick up my water and do the same, walking over to my bookshelf and pulling Nightmare from the movies section.

“Okay, so how annoying will it be if I sing along?” I ask. “Because I can try to keep quiet for you, since it’s your first time.”

…Well, can’t change it now, better pretend that was a completely innocent, normal thing to say.

“I would like to hear you sing,” he says. “If it is what you enjoy, then please do.”

“Okay. But I’ll try to keep it down during the really good ones so you can hear how great their voices are.” I open up the case and pull the disc out, then press the eject button on my laptop.

“Very well,” he says with a soft laugh.

I put the disc in, and my laptop whirrs softly as it begins spinning.

“Where would you like to sit? Or we could lie down…” I go to the door and lock it—casually, not like I want him to notice it, but also not like I’m trying to hide it—because I don’t want Sunset to grab my door handle and open the way into the hallway, where maybe (if I don’t hear them get home) Mom or Dad or Rain could see ear-guy in my room with me and get the wrong idea. Better to be safe than sorry, right?

“As this is your area,” he says, “where would you recommend? What would be most… enjoyable?”

I don’t know how he manages to say things that sound so utterly innocent, but that also make my mind go all kinds of inappropriate places.

“I like piling up the pillows and reclining on my bed, personally.”

I have a lot of extra pillows; I don’t know how I amassed so many, but it makes reading in bed much comfier. Or watching movies on my laptop. Or just about anything I don’t need to focus on. Desk is for focus; bed is for everything else.

I have a pretty big bed (for a lone teenage boy) and I don’t sprawl out a lot, so roughly half of it goes essentially untouched, except for when Jake sleeps over or when Sunset deigns to grace me with her presence. That half of the bed is where the extra pillows tend to end up; I reach over to toss them from the wall edge toward the headboard.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I say as I get my laptop and water. “Oh, and you can go ahead and put your drink here if you want,” I add as I put mine on the decorative cloth that covers my bookshelf headboard. It’s there because Mom doesn’t want water ring stains, and I’ll put my glass there whether it’s protected or not. Plus it makes the unadorned white surface a little less stark.

The headboard is actually a set of shelves, but half of them are inaccessible with my bed in the corner. I’m not exactly lacking organisational space, though; most of my walls are covered with bookcases and wall-mounted shelves and cubby compartments. I wonder how it looks to someone who hasn’t seen it every day. Does it look organized, or like I hoard things?

Ear-guy sets his glass down on the headboard and settles in near the wall, leaving the open side for me. I sit down with my laptop in my lap, its charge cord trailing toward my desk, and open my media player.

I look over at him as it loads, unable to keep the smile from sneaking onto my face. “Comfy?” I ask.

He looks at me, and it seems almost unreal that I’m looking at someone like him. That someone like him is in (okay, on) my bed with me. That we’re about to watch a movie together. Maybe cuddle up together…

He nods, smiling slightly.

“Excellent.” I rotate the laptop screen toward him, hoping the angle is okay. “How does that look? You can play with the angle if you need.” Then I remember that I should turn the light off. And close the curtains because there’s some light from the streetlights filtering in. “Oh, can you hold this so I can turn the lights off?”

He slides the laptop onto his lap and watches me as I go to the lightswitch, and then to the window above my desk, making my room as dark as possible, aside from the laptop screen. As I return, his face is low-lit, cast in soft shadows and blues, and I hope he can’t see my goofy grin. I sit down again and try to fix my face into a pleasant neutrality.

“Okay, what looks best?” I ask, reaching over and shifting the angle of the screen, judging it against his height.

“There,” he says. I realize I’m leaning against him, and it’s far too comfortable.

“Okay, good. Then…” I reach over and fiddle with the volume until it’s at what should be a good level, and then I start the movie and move the cursor out of the way. “Here we go,” I say.

He settles in, shifting his posture slightly, and I lean away self-consciously. Then he looks at me, then at his shoulder, and back at me. I slowly lean against him again, resting my cheek on his shoulder, and he leans his cheek against the top of my head.

The movie starts and he carefully adjusts the angle of the screen a little. I don’t care that my perspective turns the blacks slightly grey and makes half the colors go wonky; this is for him, not me.

I get plenty from him simply being here.

I mouth the words to the spoken opening, then the lyrics to “This Is Halloween”. Then I mouth the townspeople’s lines as well, without really thinking about it. I’ve seen this movie more times than I could possibly count. Sometimes I even recite it from memory to help me fall asleep.

I make it all the way to “Oogie Boogie’s Song” before I have to sing along, as soft and unobtrusive as I can. Then “Sally’s Song” starts and I try to keep quiet, but after a few lines, I’m singing along in a lower octave.

“…And does he notice my feelings for him? When will he see how much he means to me? I think it’s not to be.”

That’s when I realize I’m singing about ear-guy. My throat tightens up. I stop singing.

Which might be worse than if I’d continued, since singing that stanza on its own isn’t blatantly obvious or anything.

Luckily, though, the rest of the movie is pretty distinctly lacking in romance, at least until Jack and Sally’s duet. Which I’ve already sung to him.

“I love how he moves,” I whisper during Jack and Oogie’s fight scene. And then Jack realizes how Sally feels about him, and it’s like an avalanche, picking up speed until it’s Jack and Sally’s duet.

I look down at my hands while they sing, and when I look back up, they’re kissing, and my heart is racing.

Once the credits start, I pause the movie. “Can I play you the ending from the soundtrack?”

I can’t read his expression in the gloom, but I can see his nod, so I minimize the player and pull up my music folder, browsing to where I have both Nightmare and Revisited burned and saved. I find the closing narration, and play it.

The track finishes and I clear my throat. “I wish they’d kept Sir Patrick Stewart’s narration,” I say. “Don’t know why they didn’t. He did the opening, too. A little longer than the version in the movie. And he read the poem the movie was based on… which was, itself, based on A Visit From Saint Nicholas…”

He chuckles softly. “You enjoy this immensely, I presume…”

I nod. “It’s been my favorite for… almost as long as I can remember. I… guess I like the thought of there being more to the world than only what we see, you know?”

He doesn’t reply, but he does lean his head against mine. I swallow around a lump in my throat.

“Are you tired?” I ask softly, exiting out of the programs I’d opened. Then I look at the clock in the corner of my screen (well after one in the morning) and close my laptop.

“Not tired,” he says quietly. I set the laptop on my desk and when I return my hands to my lap, he takes one of them in both of his own. Even indoors, when I’m not chilled by the late October air, he’s still so warm.

“Did you… What did you think of it?” I ask.

“I liked it,” he says softly. He runs his thumb pads over the backs of my hand.

“Any… favorite songs?” I ask. That lump in my throat isn’t going away. I whisper so my voice won’t crack and break.

“I liked…” he shifts slightly and his voice seems a bit closer as he says, “the ones you sang.”

“D’you mean ‘Sally’s Song’?” I ask. “Like the reprise I sang earlier tonight?”

He nods and I can feel his nose brush my cheek. I focus on his hands: the fingers long, slender, elegantly tapered; the tendons visible at the backs, even at rest; the paleness of his skin compared to my own.

“Perhaps I should say,” he murmurs, and the warmth of his breath tickles at the side of my neck, “I liked what you sang.”

“Sally’s are… probably my favorite to sing…” I swallow with some difficulty and lick my lips, suddenly dry. “Though I don’t normally… sing around people.” Not to mention to people. I definitely don’t normally do that.

“Then I feel honored that you would sing for me,” he says, his voice all melted chocolate.

Okay, does he… want me to kiss him? He’s pretty dang close, and his fingertips are teasing all over my palm. I decide to try squeezing his hand, and if he squeezes back, I’ll take it as a good sign. So I rotate my wrist and link my fingers with his, squeezing briefly, but clearly.

He squeezes back, and doesn’t ease the pressure. So I squeeze again, this time not briefly.

Now, what sign is that?

“I’m not,” I say before tripping over that same lump in my throat. I swallow and try again. “I’m not sure where I’m… How far I should go…”

“How far?” he asks, his breath teasing the sensitive skin behind my ear.

“Well,” I mutter. “I know I’d be totally down for kissing you, but…”

The feel of his breath somehow becomes the feel of his lips against my neck. “But?” he prompts patiently.

“I’ve… never done this with anyone before,” I admit, not at all ashamed. “And you’re practically a stranger, and… you make it really hard to think straight…”

Then again, when have I ever done anything straight?

“Would you like me to leave?” he asks, ironically moving even closer, kissing the side of my neck behind my ear now, rather than only brushing the skin there with his lips.

And I don’t. I really don’t. Which, some little part of my mind points out, might be exactly why he should. “When do you have to leave?” I ask instead of answering, my voice locked away by his lips so I can only whisper.

“Before sunrise,” he says. Which is a slightly strange answer, since I was expecting a time. But, hey, it works for me.

“I… don’t want you to leave,” I say.

“Do you want me to… kiss you?” he asks.

What a rude. How dare he say such a thing. How dare he make me hear that with my own two ears. How dare he ever ask a question like that.

“Yes,” I find myself breathlessly whispering.

As soon as the word passes my lips, I worry that he’s about to laugh in my face, leap out of my bed, holler ‘psych!’ (or something less ridiculously outdated), and do a back tuck out through my window. In my mental theater, my window and curtains are open already.

But that doesn’t happen. There’s no laughter. No sound I can hear except for my breaths, loud in my ears.

He leans forward and touches two fingertips to the underside of my chin, drawing my head around so I’m looking more toward him. I see a flash of his green eyes before my eyelids flutter closed, breathless anticipation grabbing me.

His kiss is soft, but not timid. It sends a shiver through me and I gasp shakily, breathing through my nose. I don’t know what to do. Sure, I know how to kiss someone’s hand, or their forehead, or their cheek, but I don’t suspect anyone spent the summer between middle school and high school gossipping about how great a kisser I was during spin-the-bottle.

So I try what I do know, which is to say I sort of press my lips forward.

Like when we were dancing, he takes the lead easily. He kisses me gently, insistently, guidingly. Is guidingly a word? I don’t know, nor do I even care.

Then his fingertips slide from my chin, along my throat, and around to cup the back of my neck. He draws me forward, closer to him. I feel like I start to get the feel of the kiss, and then (like he did with the dance) he takes it up a level. This time, instead of speeding up, he brings out his tongue. He licks my lower lip and I gasp, which is when he slips the tip of his tongue between my lips. He doesn’t delve too deeply, though, and I find myself wishing he would. My tongue darts out experimentally and I feel his.

Then he raises the stakes still higher. Seemingly all at once, he’s sliding his hand into my hair, his fingers bumping the back of the hat I’d forgotten I was still wearing. I open my eyes as he pauses kissing me to look up at the accessory in question, and his lips quirk into a sort of smirk. He reaches up with both hands to take it from my head, holding it like he’s contemplating what to do with it.

“Here,” I say, taking it from him and turning to set it on my laptop. When I turn back, his hands have found my hips and he urges me forward more. I make a small noise. “That’s good,” I mutter, not willing to devote any more attention to that hat tonight.

“Here,” he imitates, guiding me toward him. I swallow and try to follow his lead, which brings me to carefully moving my leg over him so I’m straddling his lap, facing him. He smiles brightly up at me. Now that my eyes aren’t used to the light of my laptop, I can see him more clearly in the tinted light that’s coming in through my curtains. He returns his fingertips to underneath my chin and I let myself be drawn forward. “That is good,” he says. So it’s a paraphrase. So what. He’s making my words sound amazing, exactly like he made Clark Woodford’s words sound amazing.

Oh. Clark Woodford.

…Whatever.

I kiss ear-guy again, letting my eyes slip closed once more as he brings one hand to the small of my back, the other to the back of my head. He runs his fingers through my hair, this time not meeting any resistance. He pulls me still closer and my back arches slightly. It’s the second time tonight I’ve been this close to him, which is approximately two infinity percent as much as I’ve ever had with anyone before today. At least in any sort of romantic context.

I don’t want to give any attention to the mounting situation in my pirate pants. I want to keep kissing him. I don’t want to think about where it will end up, or what we will do or won’t do, or what I might want to do. Because all of those thoughts will lead to him eventually leaving. But if I only keep kissing him… well, that will also have to end sometime, but at least I can get as much kissing in as I can, and hope it will be enough.

As we kiss, my background worry that he might have plans other than ‘keep on kissing’ starts to fade. He doesn’t even so much as tug on my hair, nor pull my shirt up. He’s a complete gentleman, giving me nothing more than I’d already approved of, i.e. kissing.

He’s so much of a gentleman, in fact, that it almost annoys me. It doesn’t genuinely annoy me, of course, but it almost does. Because I want more, but I don’t know how to ask for it. I don’t even really know what to ask for. Sure, kissing can be the gateway to all sorts of things, but there are so many sorts of things to choose from.

Do I want him to grope me? Start necking me? Fool around with me? It doesn’t help that I know what roughly half of those things really mean. No one defines them in concrete terms when they brag about what they did the other night with this girl on the school’s Dance Team, or that girl from AP Bio.

So I don’t know what I want. But I know I want it. What to do?

I suppose I could try things out until I find what it is… But what if he doesn’t want anything else?

He breaks the kiss softly, redirecting his lips around to my cheek and the corner of my jaw. “Is this wrong?” he asks, breath soft and warm against my skin.

“Oh, no. No, it’s not wrong at all, I…” I pause and he pulls back to look at me. Dang, those eyes are spellbinding. “I want more, but I don’t know what,” I explain self-consciously.

He smiles, chuckling like he’s glad that’s my only complaint. “You may tell me anything you would like… Or,” he says with the barest hint of a chuckle, “you may demonstrate.”

Okay, yeah, demonstrating sounds easier than speaking. I move in to kiss him again and reach back to curl my fingers over the wrist at the small of my back. He kisses me in return and I slowly drag his hand downward, past the waist of my pirate pants, and down to the curve of my butt. Butt touching is generally a fun thing people do while they make out, right? Hollywood sure seems to think so, anyway.

Shortly after I stop moving his hand and bring my own hand away, he makes a soft sort of grab, almost like a massage, and I suddenly really agree with Hollywood. Butt touching is fun. Now, maybe…

I don’t pull back a lot, only enough to be able to speak while his lips push and drag almost druggingly against mine. Is druggingly a word? Dang it, he’s making me forget my own first language.

I was going to ask for something, I know it. Now what was it? Oh, right.

“Play with my hair?”

I think that was the perfect thing to ask, because I catch a glimpse of a wide, eager smile on his face before he pulls me into a deep kiss, the hand at the back of my head providing a soft pressure, keeping me against his silken lips. His fingertips trace small circles, twirling my hair around his fingers. Druggingly really is the only word I can think of to describe how he does it. He makes me feel lightheaded, like my limbs are made of cotton, and like more is the only thing I could ever need.

So what if I’ve never been on anything stronger than the stuff they gave me after my wisdom teeth were removed?

He tilts his head slightly and dips his tongue between my lips, which part obediently. He licks at my lips, my tongue, the edges of my teeth… I can barely focus on matching his movements, on reciprocating, because he’s making me almost dizzy. He kisses like he dances, which is to say very close, intimate, certain, and I’m struggling to keep up while he seems like a master.

Or maybe it comes naturally to him. Maybe he intuitively knows how to teach me what to do, how to communicate directly with my body, completely circumventing my conscious mind.

It’s going to kill me when he has to leave.

That thought spurs me on, and I move closer. I lean over him, pull him toward me with my hands on his shoulders. He tilts his head up to kiss me as I kneel over him, temporarily taller than him. I slide my hands up and against the shorn sides of his head, drawing a choked gasp from him. I avoid his ears because it would seem kind of weird, I think, if I were making out with him and playing with his fake ears. But I run my fingertips through the soft, pale hair, slipping into the mane of his undercut. I try a soft grip and tilt his head back a bit more, ducking down to kiss past his jaw to his neck.

The soft gasp he lets out makes me grin against his skin as I kiss sloppily at the side of his neck. He tilts his head away from me, encouraging me as much as the hand at the back of my head does, pushing me forward and pressing my teeth against the pale skin. I don’t bite him, but I do sort of open my mouth and scrape my teeth lightly against his neck. I lick, too. There’s a subtly smoky flavor on his skin, probably from the bonfire, but also something almost sweet, or cold, or something. Or maybe that’s my brain getting its wires crossed again. Like how his voice is the taste of s’mores and his laugh is the look of sparkling cider and ice in a tall glass. Maybe he tastes like a deep breath of clear, mountain air during a snowfall.

“You,” he sighs quietly, “feel marvelous.” He moans almost silently, and the sound seems to sink into the marrow of my bones.

“Suppose I’m a pretty good match for you, then,” I joke in a whisper. I kiss his skin, damp from my tongue, and move back up to kiss him again. He presses up against me, shifting his weight to slide down against the pillows slightly. I draw back and grin, slowly crawling backward. “Lie down?” I invite softly. He does so, and once he’s settled in with only his head on any pillows, he pulls me down on top of him. catching me in an eager kiss and sucking my lower lip into his mouth.

My heart pounds in my chest as he lightly scratches his teeth against my lip. I return the gesture, nibbling lightly and drawing back. He looks up at me, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth curved into a crooked smile. I wish I could turn my light on without raising suspicion, because I want to look at him, his lips, his eyes, the way the shadows play across his face…

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper. “I mean handsome…” I smirk wryly. “No, I mean both, really.”

He smiles wider, licking and biting softly at his lower lip. Then he lifts his chin slightly, like he’s trying to regain some dignity. “Thank you.”

I look him over in the half-darkness and feel a wave of emotion sneak up on me.

He has to leave.

And then the wave crashes over me, drenching me in a sad sort of longing.

I swallow and press my lips together. He sees the abrupt change in my emotions and tilts his head slightly, looking worried.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You’re so good, and… you’re going to leave.”

He looks into my eyes, sliding a hand to cup my jaw. “I do not wish to…”

“I know, but—” I swallow the lump in my throat down. “But you have to, right?”

He looks sad, and I almost feel guilty for putting that expression on his face. But it’s only echoing what I’m feeling.

“I do,” he agrees slowly, like he’s annoyed at the truth of it. “Still, though… I will return.”

“Yeah,” I sort of scoff. “Next year.”

He gently rolls me to the side so we’re lying next to each other, facing each other. He brushes a finger across my forehead, playing with the hair that frames my face, and then he buries his fingers in the dark brown locks, short enough to stay out of my eyes, but long enough to get a solid grip on. He lets his hand curl against the side of my head and neck, fingertips at the back of my head, thumb against my temple. He brushes the side of his thumb against the curve of my ear, and I let my eyes drift closed.

“Perhaps,” he says slowly, softly, “it may be sooner.”

My eyes flutter open and I study him. “Yeah?” I prompt, hesitantly hopeful. “Sooner would be… nice.”

He smiles and moves in to kiss me again, gently and innocently. “I wish to return soon. A year is too long.”

“A day is too long,” I mutter. I look into his eyes, too close to focus on properly, but the color still takes me in.

“I cannot stay tonight,” he says, the whispered quality doing nothing to mask the pain in his voice. “I must return before the sun rises.”

“Wherever you’re going?” I begin. “Whoever’s waiting for you? They’d better know how lucky they are.”

He sighs and cups my jaw. “There is no one but you.” He looks from my left eye to my right and back, the green shifting subtly as his eyes move. “There has never been anyone who… makes me feel like I do for you.”

“Same,” I say. Then I chuckle slightly. “I’d thought I had a thing—a huge thing—for that guy, Jake mentioned him? Clark Woodford? But then… well, then I saw you.” I shift up onto one elbow, leaning over him. He leans back so both his shoulders are touching the pillows beneath him, smiling up at me in that way that never seems to fully go away when he’s looking at me. It’s like it’s a background joy, seeping through into his expression. Because of me. I can’t keep from smiling, myself, so I think I know what his slight grin is all about. ‘Takes one to know one’ applies here, I think. “You with your… adorable ears, and your dangerously sharp cheekbones, and those delectably kissable lips… And your eyes…”

“Your favorite color?” he guesses, absolutely correctly.

I laugh almost silently. “Yesterday, it was orange. One look at you changed that.”

He closes his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “You flatter me.”

“It’s all true. You’re… visually, the most striking person I’ve ever seen. And your personality?” I kiss him softly, because I feel like I should. He kisses me back, eyes still closed, and the corners of his mouth tease upward. “The more time I spent with you, the… more in love with you I fell. And I’m still falling. I’m sort of afraid I’m gonna be falling forever.”

“At least… we are falling together.” He looks up at me and I pretend I can see some nervousness in his eyes. But what would he have to be nervous about? Blonde hair and green eyes is so much more attractive than dark hair and dark eyes. He reaches up and brushes the side of his thumb along my cheek, feeling my cheekbone, dragging his fingers along my jaw as he draws his hand back down toward my chin. And, classically conditioned already, as soon as he touches my chin, I follow his lead into a soft, warm kiss.

Maybe a relationship based on a few hours of knowing someone isn’t a good idea. Maybe not knowing someone’s name ought to kind of tell you that you shouldn’t be absolutely head over heels for them. At least not yet. But…

But he feels so… right. And he’s a great kisser. And he could have avoided me if he wanted to. But he went where I asked him to meet me, and he… He stayed with me whenever I asked him to.

And for the first time in I don’t know how long… I don’t feel lonely. I feel like I have… everything I could ever want or need.

I feel like he is everything I could ever need or want. Like we are the last line of Jack and Sally’s duet. Simply meant to be.

“Is it wrong if I feel like I should say that I love you?” Sure, that’s couched in enough ‘hypothetically…’ to avoid being me saying it.

“If it is, then I am also in the wrong,” he says. He cups the back of my head and draws me closer, but not into another kiss. This time, he closes his eyes and touches my forehead to his, our noses pressed together gently. I close my eyes as well, breathing in his mountain-snowfall scent.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say softly, not wanting to disturb the moment. “It was… the best night I’ve ever had.”

“And I thank you,” he says, exactly as softly. “You’ve… opened my eyes. And my heart.”

I move to kiss his cheekbone. “I consider myself… so lucky.”

“I am glad,” he says, “that I could bring you good fortune.”

“You are my good fortune,” I correct gently.

I brush my cheek against his and hide my face in the crook of his neck.

“I wish we could stay together,” I say.

“And I… wish to be able to grant your wish,” he says. “I mourn that I cannot tonight. But perhaps, before too long, I may.”

My heart soars. “I’d really like that.” I kiss at the side of his neck, smiling to myself.

He’s amazing. In every way.

I’m probably dreaming right now, aren’t I. Wouldn’t that be fricking perfect. But every part of tonight stands in such sharp detail… how could it be only a dream?

“This… isn’t smart,” I whisper. “Me… loving you so much, so fast.”

“Love is not an… intellectual endeavor,” he responds.

I smile. “No,” I agree, “it isn’t, is it.”

He looks up at me, eyes once more bouncing between mine, trembling slightly while the rest of him is still and steady.

“I will return,” he says, halfway sounding like a promise, halfway like a decision.

“I will miss you every day until you do,” I say. A promise, a revelation, a decision I had no part in making.

He draws me down into a soft, gentle kiss. One that makes me feel like we’ve shared thousands upon thousands of kisses before it, and will share millions upon millions after it.

“I don’t want you to go,” I breathe out, eyes closed. He caresses my face like he’s memorizing it. “…But the longer you’re here,” I mumble, “the harder it will be to let you go.”

He draws me into another kiss. Silent, breathless whispers against each other’s lips. ‘I love you’s that have no breath, so they aren’t really alive. So they can’t really hurt us.

Sweet poison that my heart pumps into every inch of my body, whose antidote is on his lips.

“It is late,” he whispers after a lifetime of kissing. “You ought to sleep.”

He’s right; I can feel the weight of my eyelids increasing, trying to pull me away from him.

“I miss you,” I say. I’d meant to say ‘I’ll miss you,’ but the contraction sort of fell away.

I look at him and see him smiling. He reaches up to my throat and unties his cloak.

“I would that I could leave this in your care,” he says. “Regretfully, though…”

I nod. “It’s cold out there.” I shoulder out of his cloak and lie down between him and the wall, pressed against him as close as I can get. “Do you wanna keep your wings?” I ask. I can hear the drowsiness in my voice.

He chuckles and kisses me once more before sitting up. “I think I might not be able to. Would you…” He shrugs slightly. “Would you want to?”

I smile groggily and watch him put his cloak on. “You’re so… beautiful,” I say quietly.

He sets his balloon wings on top of my pirate hat and turns back to me. Then he leans over and kisses me. But instead of pulling back, he rolls over onto his side and pulls my arm around him. I hold him like that for a while, my nose nestled in his soft hair, my chest against his back, his cloak twisted around carelessly.

Eventually, the sound of his breath, the warmth of him, the comfort I feel with him lulls me into a half-sleep sort of daze. He rolls onto his back and turns his face toward me. I think he watches me, while I struggle to see his eyes. Eventually, I lose the fight against my eyelids and relegate my focus to listening to him breathing.

“I will come back for you,” he whispers. “I will take you away with me, if you wish.”

I do wish, I think I say. There’s nothing more I’d like than to go with you.

He kisses my forehead and I realize I’m falling asleep. I’m starting to dream. How much of what I heard had he really said?

“I love you,” he says. I can’t open my eyes. Is he still really there?

I don’t know if I say it back to him, or if I only dream that I do.

Chapter 4

nothing human

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