The Writings of Theo W.

Draft

Mon, 07 Aug 2006 00:17:26 GMT

[prologue]

It's a Tuesday today, and there's an empty can of Diet Pepsi in front of me. I snapped the tab off ten minutes ago and stuck it in the pocket of my blue jeans, but I still keep almost trying to drink it. Even though I know full well it's empty, and even if it wasn't, it's not mine. I don't even like Diet Pepsi. They say you can't tell the difference, but I can.

He's drinking only diet soda now. Something about weight or health or some other bullshit he thinks is important because he thinks it matters to me.

Which it doesn't.

And if this can of Diet Pepsi on the table is my biggest worry today, I guess I'm pretty fucking lucky.

Even if it poses all sorts of sticky questions about him, about why I'm here, about why he gave me a key to his room.

I don't think it's so I can sketch his cats. Not anymore. But this is the sort of dilemma that Marvel and DC never taught me how to solve.

Speaking of which.

I had a dream about Superman last night, coming for some sort of heart-to-heart chat like he always seems to do in these things. The fact that he always looks more like Edward Norton than Christopher Reeve probably says something about my take on Truth, Justice, and The American Way.

He always has a cigarette, and he smirks at me, wondering what punk-ass kid who calls himself Asmodeus--not exactly wholesome, I guess--is doing trying to get in on his game.

I can never remember what he says in these dreams, but I get the feeling there's a lot about the goodness of humanity and the promise of a better future.

At any rate, this is how I figure it: I have every right to steal Superman's thunder.

After all--I crush the Diet Pepsi can with one hand, into a quarter-sized aluminum lump--I'm not the one who only exists in comic books and Saturday morning cartoons.

I sigh, toss the can into the wastebasket by his easel, and momentarily regret being the one who has to live in the real world, where good doesn't always triumph over evil in nice half-hour blocks, with time built in for commercial breaks.

I.

Puberty.

Not the best place for you to decide your life reall started, but that's that, I guess.

They showed us the videos in school, where some former child star--now grown up, out of rehab, and probably bankrupt--told us about those "magic changes" we'd fins ourselves going through.

So I was as prepared as anyone else for the cracking voice, the annoying dark bristly hair showing in places I didn't care for it to be, and the--Well, although the former child star explained human reproduction as well as the somewhat bewildering concept of what he called "wet dreams," he did a poor job of linking the two and an even poorer job of telling me why all of this suddenly made Patrick Swayze and Brad Pitt the two most important things that ever happened to me.

But these videos and class discussions never once mentioned the fact that I might go home one day to find out that I could lift the living room sofa above my head one-handed, or that I could, oh, I don't know, fly, maybe.

Talk about your "magic changes."

"I think I'm turning into a mutant lifeform," I confided to Taro Ichi, over bologna and juiceboxes in the school cafeteria.

"It's just acne," he reassured me, bored with statements like this and more busy trying to open a bag of spider-shaped fruit snacks.

I glared. "That wasn't what I meant."

"Having dreams about Kirk Cameron also doesn't constitute genetic mutation," he continued. "It just makes you a pervert."

"I mean like . . . Superpowers."

"Superpowers?" He was skeptical.

"Like super-strength, and flight, and . . ." I trailed off. "Never mind. Forget I brought it up."

Untitled Snape/Bill

Wed, 08 Mar 2006 05:15:52 GMT

Worst Head Boy ever.

Or the best.

It really depended on who you asked.

McGonagall would chastise him on his unkempt appearance—tie askew, hair too long, shirtsleeves rolled up—and his lax attitude towards school rules—wandering about after hours, skipping classes, smoking in the hallway before and after class, being seen at the edge of the Forbidden Forest—because, as she would say to him, time and time again, “you are the example the younger students look to, to provide the picture of a morally sound, admirable young man.”

Morally sound. She would emphasize those words especially; she’d heard the rumours: Geneva Whippet behind the tapestries in the North-Northwest corridor, Taran Garfield in the supply closet, a Ravenclaw Prefect in the broom shed, the Hufflepuff Seeker in their locker room, and all three of the Slytherin Chasers. At once. With whipped cream.

She didn’t even want to think about what she’d heard about the Beaters.

Professor Snape, however, did.

Professor Severus Snape, twenty-eight years old and hating this place. He’d spent his own schooldays waiting just to get out, and now . . . Well, it was better than Azkaban.

He hated the boy; he made that clear enough. But there was something about the image of that long red hair tangled in someone else’s hands, some faceless, unimportant other boy. About the image of his lean, freckled body, naked and soaked with sweat and pressing against—

“Severus?” McGonagall shot him a stern look from across the staff room.

He blinked. “What?”

“I asked you if you still needed help cleaning those cauldrons the first years massacred this morning. I gave one of my pupils detention earlier and . . .”

“I—Of course. That would be fine. Send them around tonight at eight.”

He sighed inwardly. Another night gone. Another night forcing him to oversee some incompetent half-wit. Another night without getting to cast a silencing charm on his dungeons so he could put on those LP’s he sneaked in . . . Led Zeppelin, The Doors, George Thorogood, Black Sabbath, Queen, The Who . . . Bowie.

Still, he reminded himself reluctantly, it’s better than Azkaban.

Eight o’ clock came. And went. Eight-oh-one, eight-oh-two, eight-ten, eight-twelve . . .

And at eight-twenty-six, a carefree, overconfident, “Hey, Prof! Sorry I’m late! Got held up, you know.”

He looked up from his desk. Oh, God, not . . . “Weasley.”

“Yes?” Tie undone, as usual. Red hair framing an angular face, red hair brushing his shoulders. His lips curving into a natural sardonic smile. Weasley.

“I assume you know what I expect you to do tonight.”

“Clean cauldrons?”

“Precisely. Now, everything you need should be in that cupboard. I’ll be in my office if you—” If you need me. Come now, Severus, it’s not that hard to say. And then you turn and leave the room and that, as they say, is that. Not hard to do. Go on. “I suppose I’ll have to stay and make sure you don’t render these cauldrons completely unsalvageable, won’t I?”

An indifferent shrug. “Sure, Prof. If that’s what you’d like.”

And half an hour later, Professor Snape was at his desk reading a “highly intellectual book exploring new techniques in the brewery of American potions.” Or so he had told Weasley it was when the nosy, impertinent little twit had asked . . . I had never known music like it, the rawness of it, the intensity, the rapid glittering torrents of notes that came out of the strings as he sawed away. It was Mozart he was playing, and it had all the gaiety, the velocity, and the sheer loveliness of—

“Led Zeppelin?”

The book fell to the stone floor. “What, Weasley?”

The boy clutched Professor Snape’s LP’s, eyes shining. “Found your records, Prof, in the cupboard. I was looking for some more rags, you know, to scrub with, and . . . You like Led Zeppelin! Wow.”

“Now, Weasley, I don’t think—”

“Robert Plant’s voice . . . It’s like . . . It’s like sex, you know, Prof? Better than, sometimes. Oh, man. You mind if I put one on? Please?”

No. Don’t be ridiculous. This is detention. And I am a serious man, involved in serious matters. “If you must. But do cast a silencing charm first. The turntable comes out rather loud.”

Grinning, Weasley dropped the needle into his chosen track. There was a breathless pause, waiting for it to settle into its groove, then the opening guitar riffs, heavy and loud and pounding.

“You need cooling, baby, I’m not fooling . . .”

Sex. Exactly.

“I’m gonna send you back to schooling . . .”

He crossed back to his cauldrons, ran a hand through his hair, loosened his necktie, and began to sing along, moving his lips with the words.

“Way down inside, honey, you need it. I’m gonna give you my love . . .”

Professor Severus Snape shut his eyes, tried not think of Weasley, of broom sheds, of whipped cream . . . Of Robert Plant’s voice, of Robert Plant’s cries and moans, of such sounds coming from the boy not ten feet away, scrubbing out cauldrons and nodding in time to the music.

“You want to know why I got detention, Prof?”

“Not particularly.”

“I got caught. By Andrea Greengrove, you know, the Hufflepuff Prefect? I think she was mostly upset because . . . Well, you can’t blame me; I didn’t know he was her boyfriend.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. So it goes. He was lousy, anyway.”

“I suppose you’re speaking . . . sexually?”

Weasley turned to look at his professor, slightly miffed. “How did you think I’d be speaking? I didn’t really know him. I mean . . .” He licked his lips, thinking. “I don’t know what I mean.”

“I would guess that you’re developing something of a reputation, Weasley. You might want to ask yourself if that’s what you want.”

He shrugged again, smiling. “Nothing is said that isn’t true.”

Oh, God. Not helping. “So the story about the Slytherin Chasers and the whipped cream . . . ?”

Weasley flinched. “Er, sorry you had to hear about that one, Prof. I forgot you were their Head of House.”

“I’ll forgive it, Weasley. I’m just glad to know that they’re good for something.”

“It was fun, yeah. You want to know what I did?” He was studying Snape carefully now, sizing him up, measuring how far he could take this.

“Are you planning on telling me?”

Bill tossed the rag into the cauldron, wiped his grimy hands on his trousers, and stepped closer. “What would you say if I offered to show you?”

Best Head Boy ever.

“I feel I would have to ask you to close the door first.”

“And then?”

“I would ask you to lock it, theoretically.”

“And after I did that?”

“I thought that was where you planned to take over. Theoretically.”

Weasley smiled, satisfied. “And if I’m not talking theoretically?”

Best Head Boy ever.

“Then I would have to revise what I just said.”

“Oh? To what?”

“Close and lock the door. Then start the record over. This side is nearly over.”

Wealsey’s smile grew. “Prof, I think you’re taking this better than I thought you would when I imagined it—I mean, you’re a good sport.” He paused. “That didn’t sound right.”

“No, it sounded foolish. But I’ll forgive that, too.” He sighed, passed a hand over his eyes, and wondered, as usual, how the hell do I get myself into situations like this? Well, not like this, exactly. He’d never been seduced by a redheaded schoolboy before. But he’d been in uncomfortable spots . . .

And when he looked back at the boy, he had shut and locked the door and was bringing the needle back to the start of the record . . .

“Well, Prof, first I . . .” Weasley took off his tie, draped it around his professor’s neck, used it to pull him closer. “Of course, there were three of them . . . But you get the idea . . .” And one hands was undoing Professor Snape’s robes, while the other . . .

“Weasley, are you sure you want to . . . ?”

The schoolboy nodded. “Didn’t I say I’d imagined doing this?”

Bill Weasley. Either the worst Head Boy ever or the best.

It all depended on who you asked.

COLORLESS GREEN IDEAS

Mon, 20 Feb 2006 05:31:20 GMT

(The lights come up dimly on a table with two chairs: One on either side of it. In one sits the LAWYER, who has papers spread out in front of him on the table. HE appears to be reviewing them with JULIAN, who sits in the other chair. JULIAN is a young man in his early twenties, more likely to be described as pretty than handsome, and even that is a dubious description. He is clad in orange prison garb.)

LAWYER
So you say you didn’t kill him?

JULIAN
No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that I myself did not murder him with my own hands like they’re saying. But I will not deny that I killed Peter Doria.

LAWYER
You’re trying to tell me that you accidentally stabbed that boy seven times in the chest with a— It says here that you used a ***.

JULIAN
A ***? Jesus. The bastard.

LAWYER
Who’s a bastard? Peter Doria? And don’t pretend to be so shocked. You knew what the weapon was, of course. You used—

JULIAN
I didn’t stab Pete to death with a ***. I didn’t stab him at all . . .

LAWYER
But you said you killed him.

JULIAN
I as good as did. I let it happen.

LAWYER
So now you’re saying that you didn’t commit the murder itself?

JULIAN
I already told you I didn’t.

LAWYER
Then who did?

JULIAN
I . . .

LAWYER
Who killed him?

JULIAN
I don’t think I should . . .

LAWYER
Tell me. Who killed Peter Doria? Somebody did. If not you, then who?

JULIAN
I can’t tell you! Jesus, don’t ask!

LAWYER
If you’re innocent, you need to tell me. I can’t defend you without any evidence in your favor. I’m your lawyer, for God’s sake. You have to tell me the truth at least. I don’t care if you did do it; most of my clients did. You don’t have to feign innocence for my sake. For the judge and the jury, sure, feel free, feign your heart out, but I want to know what I’m working with. Why did you do it?

JULIAN
I told you I didn’t. You don’t believe me, do you?

LAWYER
You’re not giving me any reason to.

JULIAN
And you’re not giving me any reason to believe you when you say you want to win this case for me. So I guess that makes us even, huh?

LAWYER
Cut it out.

JULIAN
All right. But I couldn’t have killed him.

LAWYER
You couldn’t have? Why not?

JULIAN
I loved him. He was . . . He was like a brother to me.

LAWYER
You don’t have to do that here.

JULIAN
Do what?

LAWYER
Cover for yourself. I know you’re from Eden Avenue. Everyone knows.

JULIAN
And people from Eden Avenue can’t love each other like brothers?

LAWYER
I just assumed . . .

JULIAN
Well, don’t. I had more friends on Eden that I could call brothers than I ever had at home. Or in school. Or anywhere else. I had Bill and Tony, Addison, Dana, Mason, Carrie-Ann.
(Pauses.)
River. And River.

LAWYER
(looking at his papers) River . . . River . . . Oh, yes. Real name Jordan M. Baker. Shared a one-room apartment with you when he first moved to Eden Avenue.

JULIAN
River’s in your files? What else does it say?

LAWYER
There’s just a picture of you two. But as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.
(HE pushes a photo across the table to JULIAN, who picks it up and studies it.)

JULIAN
Oh, geez . . . It’s from Addison’s party last Christmas. Why do you have a copy of this?

LAWYER
Because the prosecution has one too. Still think your I-love-River-like-a-brother line is going to go over?

JULIAN
(pretending to be flippant) What, you never Frenched your brother?

LAWYER
(sarcastically) Sure, but I never let him stick his hand down my pants.

JULIAN
Look, I think you’re missing the point. That was . . . Well, that was just Addison’s Christmas party. And I still don’t know what this has to do with Pete. He wasn’t there. We didn’t even know him then. Unless you’re trying to draw a connection between me and this picture and . . .

LAWYER
River and Pete. Exactly. That’s what they’re saying, anyway. You been reading the papers?

JULIAN
No, but I’ve heard. They’re saying that I killed him out of envy and rage, aren’t they? That I still loved River and couldn’t stand the thought of losing him to Pete?

LAWYER
Something like.

JULIAN
They obviously never met River.

LAWYER
What do you mean?

JULIAN
I just mean that—
(HE stops abruptly as RIVER enters. RIVER is about the same age as JULIAN, with a strangely frightened androgynous look. There is an awkward silence.)

RIVER
Why did you do it, Julian?

LAWYER
Julian? What’s wrong?

RIVER
Why did you do it?

LAWYER
What are you staring at?

JULIAN
(to LAWYER) I . . . I don’t know.

RIVER
Julian! Tell me!

LAWYER
Tell me about River.

RIVER
Tell me why you did it!

LAWYER
Tell me about Jordan M. Baker.

JULIAN
I can’t! I can’t tell you . . .

RIVER and LAWYER
You have to, Julian!

JULIAN
It’s not that simple. It’s not a matter of “have to” and “can’t” . . . I wish I knew how to explain it. I wish I could just tell you what happened.

RIVER
I know what happened. I just want to know why.

LAWYER
I know what they think happened. I just want to know why you think your version of events is any different. Or how you think you can prove it is.

JULIAN
I can try . . . But I can’t guarantee that my version of events is any better than the clean-cut one they made up for me.

RIVER
Tell us.

LAWYER
Try me.

RIVER and LAWYER
What have you got to lose?

(The lights go down.)

(The lights come up again on an empty stage. PETE enters with MICKEY. Both are high school seniors and they carry book bags. PETE is dressed in black in an attempt to pull off some sort of artsy beatnik look but not quite making it, and MICKEY wears simply a won-out tee-shirt and tattered jeans.)

MICKEY
You coming to math?

PETE
Do I look like I’m coming to math? Chrissakes, Mickey. Don’t think so little of me. Math!

MICKEY
I—I’m not going to math either. Waste of time, right?

PETE
No, that’s not it. I’m going to go waste time, too. But I’m just not going to waste it on math.

MICKEY
What’re you going to do, Pete?

PETE
Drop acid and fingerpaint.

MICKEY
No, really!

PETE
Going to visit Bianca.

MICKEY
She still alive?

PETE
Working a striptease on Saint-Germain. Told her I’d go see her again before I graduate in the spring.

MICKEY
If you do.

PETE
Oh, I will. You know I will. I’m not failing anything yet. Not like you are. You better go to math.

MICKEY
But I thought I could—

PETE
Go!

(MICKEY exits. After a few moments, JAMES enters. He’s another high school senior.)

JAMES
Hey, you still want to go tonight?

PETE
I guess. I mean . . . I don’t want you think I’m . . . I’m just interested, that’s all.

JAMES
Sure. Right, I understand. Everyone’s gotta see Eden Avenue at some point, right?

PETER

TRIPTYCH

Mon, 13 Feb 2006 01:51:38 GMT

“You having fun, Clare?” Mason slid into the booth beside him and handed him a drink. From their table in the back of the club, Clarence had spent the evening watching young men sweating through their clothes, dancing and grinding and groping each other to horrible generic techno music.

“No, I’m not,” he answered. “Are you?”

Mason laughed and held out his left hand for Clarence to examine. “Seven phone numbers in two hours. Not a bad night’s work, if I do say so myself.”

Tentatively tasting his drink, Clarence said, “True. But this could be a case of quality versus quantity, couldn’t it?”

“Dude. You’re no fun. You know that?” Mason shoved him playfully, before focusing his attention on his own drink.

“He’s got a point, you know,” Ginger drawled from where he half-sat, half-reclined on Clarence’s other side. “Myself, I never settled for someone who wasn’t at least three years older and four inches taller, with good cheekbones and nice teeth. Oh, and money. You must never underestimate the importance of a man who will—” He laughed. “—Give you fifty dollars for the powder room.” Ginger sipped his drink. “Of course, my standards are changing dramatically.”

“Oh, really?” Mason looked doubtful.

With another shadow of his musical laugh, Ginger replied, smiling coyly, “Oh, yes. I now find myself quite partial to the ‘irritable grocery boy’ type.”

Clarence sighed and went back to watching the others. A boy with a green Mohawk was dancing with a boy in fishnet stockings and a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, dancing close, dancing as if their only goal was to touch each other as often as possible.

Which, Clarence supposed, it probably was.

He wished he could throw himself into the scene as much as the others. He wished he could dance with strangers, his hands on their hips, theirs on his, and not be somehow frightened of the entire experience. He used to be able to do it. He had done it with Terry Boot, hadn’t he? And the others all did it. Mason danced with everyone. Addy Delaney didn’t dance; he found the other fellows who thought that they were “too good” for it and disappeared with them into the gents’ for the night. And Jake Street was usually missing-in-action by the time the night was over.

Ginger seemed content enough to sit beside Clarence and smile disarmingly at anyone who glanced their way.

Clarence knew that smile now. He had thought it was real once, when he first saw Ginger using it in The Marquis de Sade’s, but it wasn’t. His real smile was so much more hesitant, so much more hopeful, so much sadder . . .

It was an orphan-on-Christmas smile, knowing that there were never presents under the tree, but hoping that this year might be different. Knowing that he had never loved any of his three-years-older, four-inches-taller men, nor they him, but always hoping that the next one might be it.

And knowing it wouldn’t be.

“You two going to sit here all night?” Mason asked, pushing his empty glass away.

Clarence shrugged.

“I want a Shirley Temple,” Ginger said, flashing Mason that disarming smile.

Mason rolled his eyes at them and loosened his necktie. “If you two aren’t getting up, then I’m not either.”

“Good. Sit here and memorize seven phone numbers.” Clarence shook his head at his friend. “Hopeless twit.”

“I’m not!”

“You are.”

“Shh! Look!” Ginger tugged on Clarence’s sleeve and nodded at a young man at the bar, one with a predatory smile and at least three different men offering him drinks. He was slender and beautiful and perfect and poisonous, in his all-black suit, in his blood-red necktie and blood-red hair, in his black liquid eyeliner and pale pink lip gloss.

“Oh, not him,” Clarence moaned, burying his head in his hands.

“You know him?” Mason asked softly, gazing at the man.

“Yeah, you could say that. His name’s Terry. Terry Boot.”

“Where would you meet a guy like that?”

Ginger smirked at Mason. “WANKLYDIAPLT, you mean?”

“Pardon?”

“What’s a nice kid like you doing in a place like this? ” Pushing his empty glass away, he said, “That, right there, is my type of man.”

Mason glared at him. “Stick to your irritable grocery boys and give the rest of us a chance, would you?”

“He’s looking at you,” Ginger told Mason matter-of-factly. “Maybe you want to smile and wave, just to prove that you’re not as obtuse as you look.”

“What?” Mason jabbed Clarence in the ribs. “Dude, are you sure he’s not looking at you?”

“Yeah, pretty sure. Don’t look back.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want him to come over here.”

“Prat.”

“Shut up.”

“Doesn’t matter what you want, anyway. He’s doing it.”

“Coming over here? Shit. He is.”

Sliding closer, Ginger entwined his arm possessively with Clarence’s. It was the same gesture Clarence had instinctively used with Terry when threatened with Seamus’s appearance. Clarence tried not to be irritated by it, but he couldn’t help but wonder why keeping Ginger from killing himself gave Ginger an excuse to claim him as his territory.

Then again, Ginger claimed a lot of things that he had no use for.

“Good evening, boys. Enjoying yourselves?”

Clarence winced at that slow, feline smile.

Ginger pulled Clarence closer and glared at the newcomer.

And Mason nodded dumbly, before smiling back with his one-hundred-percent, smile-like-you-mean-it grin.

Clarence wondered if he should tell Mason that Terry’s smile was as much an illusion as the rest of him was.

Terry tore his gaze from Mason to study Clarence for a moment. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

Clarence shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he lied.

Ginger wrapped his other arm around Clarence.

Shrugging, Terry turned back to Mason. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“No! Not at all.” Mason seemed to be beaming at his own unbelievable luck.

Terry slid into the booth beside Mason and lit a cigarette from a silver case.

“Don’t you have to take care of some dark, handsome, rich-looking men with passionate natures and too many teeth?” Ginger asked loudly. “Are you sure you have time to trifle with poor little boys who can’t even afford to buy you drinks?”

Mason flushed and Terry looked Ginger over in a single cool, unimpressed stare. “Ginger Phelps, isn’t it?”

Ginger narrowed his eyes.

“How nice to hear the pot calling the kettle black.” Terry turned back to Mason. “What did you say your name was?”

“I . . . I didn’t. But it’s Mason.”

“Well, Mason, let’s make this as simple as possible, all right?” Terry paused to blow a smoke ring to him. “I know there’s a generally accepted set of things we’re supposed to say to each other. What’s your sign? You favorite color? Food? Band? And all that tired old stuff that I know neither of us really cares about. So let’s skip all that and cut right to the chase.”

“All right,” Mason managed to say, looking a bit nervous.

“I only came over here because I saw you from across the room and I suddenly realized that I would like to have sex with you. As soon as possible, if that’s fine with you.”

Mason stared and Ginger exchanged glances with Clarence.

“And since you let me sit beside you,” Terry continued, with the bored tones of someone discussing cricket or the weather, “I feel that you aren’t exactly disinclined towards me, either. So, to put it simply: I find you attractive, I want to take you to my flat, and upon getting there, I want to strip you naked and do all sorts of things to or with you, including—but not limited to—fucking you absolutely senseless. You dig?”

Mason gaped for a minute before nodding quickly. “Yeah . . . Yeah, I dig that plan. That is, uh, well . . . Yeah. Fuck yes.”

“Lovely.” Terry stood and held out a hand to Mason. “Shall we be going, then?”

As they watched Mason disappear with Terry, Clarence muttered, “Wonder how long it took him to memorize that speech.”

Ginger sighed. “I don’t know, but you’ve got to admit: If nothing else, the man has style.”

There was something horribly important about getting this perfectly right. How did one orchestrate a completely ordinary yet very important date? Theoretically, it should have been simple. He’d seen it done about a thousand times in the upscale Diagon Alley restaurants, when he’d been young and taken by various members of his family to be an example of the ideal Zabini child. There was dinner and wine and, often enough, flowers for the girl.

But there was no girl this time. And no upscale restaurant.

And Blaise Zabini was beginning to wonder if inviting Seamus Finnigan over for dinner at his flat was a very foolish thing to do.

It wasn’t exactly a matter of the food. Blaise was a Zabini and Zabinis could cook. There was practically a written rule: As a member of the Zabini family, you must be able to, due to your superior culinary genetics, make a killer pasta dinner without breaking a sweat.

He’d even made cannoli. Because, well, because he could and because he wanted to feel productive.

And then he’d eaten some of the cannoli, because, well, it was cannoli and it was just sitting there, and he was a Zabini, after all.

What was more, he was Blaise Zabini and he was uncharacteristically flustered by the whole thing.

Mostly because he’d never done this before. He’d done many things in his life, but he’d never actually tried to . . . Well, put simply: Blaise had never tried to woo another man. Woo. God, what a stupid word.

And Blaise felt stupid trying to figure out how to do it.

But he felt he could conclude with relative certainty that Seamus would not care to be given flowers.

“Would you like a drink?” Terry smiled at the boy standing awkwardly in the middle of his apartment.

“Uh, no. No, it’s all right. I had a couple down at the Sumatra . . . At the club.”

Terry frowned at him, momentarily wondering if he’d made a mistake. If he shouldn’t have chosen this black-haired, blue-eyed almost-man with the sincere smile, and the awkward, honest manner.

Maybe he would have done better to pick someone more like him, someone false and indifferent and knowing.

But that wasn’t what he wanted. Not tonight. He’d had enough of those people. Enough of small talk like fencing matches and false sincerity that tried to compete with his own.

Terry poured himself a glass of his trademark luminous liquor, never taking his eyes off the boy in the tattered black jeans and the white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the necktie loose and sloppy.

Mason, however, tried not to look at Terry. He pretended to be interested in the art prints on the walls, in the furniture, the carpet, his own shoes . . .

As he drank, Terry continued to watch Mason, smirking slightly at his obvious unease.

Neither one spoke.

Finally, after what seemed to Mason to be hours, Terry set his empty glass on the bar and walked back across the room to him.

Mason opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he realized that there was nothing to say.

Taking him by the necktie, Terry drew him closer and kissed him, his lips slippery-wet with alcohol and strawberry lip-gloss, and his tongue tasting of the same. Of alcohol and lip gloss and cigarettes.

When Mason tried to slide his own tongue into Terry’s mouth, tried to pull him closer, to run a hand through Terry’s hair, Terry released him roughly and stepped away, Mason’s necktie still wrapped around his fingers. He smoothed it out across his hand and traced the abstract floral design with a finger.

Mason gave him a quizzical look, and Terry responded by smiling and removing Mason’s tie to drape it around his own shoulders.

Smiling, Mason stepped towards Terry, but Terry held up a hand to stop him and nodded towards the bedroom door.

“This is such an awful movie,” Ginger complained, tossing a handful of popcorn at the screen. “See if I ever trust your judgment again.”

“Don’t throw food around. Mum’ll kill me.” Clarence glared at him.

“Aah, no, she won’t. She likes you.” Ginger set the popcorn bowl on the coffee table and curled up against Clarence, his head on Clarence’s shoulder. “Wish I had a mother who liked me.”

“Maybe you have.”

“Oh, yes, she’s absolutely thrilled that she can’t—What was it? Oh, yes. ‘Show her face in polite society ever again.’”

“Bullshit.”

“Not where I’m from.”

“Then it’s a bloody good thing you left, isn’t it?” Clarence put an arm around the fragile boy who seemed almost to huddle against him for protection. “Now, watch the movie.”

“Don’t want to.” Ginger yawned and smiled at Clarence.

Clarence rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to suggest something, er, suggestive, I’ll have to turn you down.”

Ginger pulled away and studied him, frowning. “Why are you always saying that?”

Shrugging, Clarence explained, “I just don’t want to . . . I don’t want you to get, well, confused.”

“Confused?”

“Yeah. Thinking that you fancy me or something. You’re just going through, you know, a difficult time and you need someone to be there for you. But you don’t want to get needing a friend confused with wanting to sleep with that friend. And, really, I’m not sure I’m even a great choice for a friend. I’m not exactly warm and cuddly, you’ll notice. And I hate trying to make people feel better. Comforting them and all that crap.”

“I don’t need comforting,” Ginger told him. “I don’t need you to pretend to be all concerned and therapeutic. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t; you’re not very good at it. You couldn’t fake concern to save your life, sweetheart. Now, me, I can do it real easy. Not you, though . . . That’s why I can tell what little concern you show is the real thing.”

“I . . . Thank you. I guess.”

“Oh, no, Clare. Thank you.”

“You like Styx?” Mason arched an eyebrow as Terry put an LP on the turntable. “They’re such a crap band.”

“Yes. I do.” Terry gave him a look that told him the subject was closed.

Shrugging, Mason sat on the edge of the bed. “Whatever.”

“Once, long ago, a word from your lips, and the world turned around . . .” Terry removed his own necktie and studied Mason thoughtfully.

“But somehow you’ve changed; you’re so far away . . .”

“Take off your shirt, Martin.”

“Mason.”

“Whatever.”

Mason undid the buttons on his blue shirt and stopped. “You’re just going to watch?”

“I long for your touch, and dream of the days . . .”

“Take off your shirt.”

He tossed it to the floor. “Your turn.”

Terry shook his head. “One step at a time.”

“With you, Madame Blue . . .”

Terry flicked the needle out of the record’s groove. “Always hated that song.”

“Then why did you . . . ?”

With a cool smile, Terry simply instructed, “Less questioning, more stripping. Trousers.” He paused. “On second thought, I can help you with those, can’t I?” He sighed, tossed the LP across the room, and put another one on.

Mason laughed. “What’s this?”

“What do you think? It’s Bowie.” He crossed over to Mason and undid the button on Mason’s jeans, eased open the zipper, parted the metal teeth . . .

“It’s safe in the city to love in a doorway, to wrangle some screams from the dawn . . .”

He pulled them off, kissed Mason, and whispered, his mouth against Mason’s black hair, “And isn’t it me, putting pain in a stranger? Like a portrait in flesh . . .”

“You’re a very weird guy.” Mason put his hands on either side of Terry’s face, turned it to face his, and tried to kiss him, but Terry ducked away.

They stood facing each other, one naked, one still fully clothed with a pair of neckties tossed over his shoulders.

Terry smirked. “Get on the bed.”

With a nervous smile, Mason obliged.

“Will you see that I’m scared and I’m lonely?”

“I wonder what Mason’s up to,” Clarence mused, smiling a bit at Ginger.

“I know what he’s up to,” Ginger replied. “What I don’t know is what your mother will think when gets home to find her very favorite sofa defiled.”

“She doesn’t have to know.”

“Good point. Can I try on your jeans?”

“Uh, sure, I guess . . . I bet I can guess what he’s up to, as well. The usual Terry Boot Special.”

“Which is what?” Ginger contemplated his reflection in the blank television screen. “I think you look better in your jeans.” He laughed and tossed them back to Clarence. “Or out of them.”

“You notice I didn’t have to try on those bloody purple PVC things you wore.”

“You should. You’d look marvelous in them.” He wrapped his arms around Clarence and smiled at him, a genuine, contented smile with smudged eyeliner and tousled hair, open and honest and leaving everything up to Clarence.

He smiled back. “Ah, I wouldn’t, you know.”

“Would too.” He directed his eyes back to the television screen. “Now watch the movie, sweetheart. It’s really very good.”

“It’s not as good as all that.”

“It’s grown on me. I didn’t see the appeal at first, but . . .” Another smile, another kiss. “Somewhere around the bit where he plays ‘As Time Goes By,’ it improved considerably, don’t you think?”

Perfectly. It was a subjective term, Blaise had to admit. But still, under no circumstances and no matter the criteria for perfection, would anyone say that Blaise’s date with Seamus was going “perfectly.”

It wasn’t Seamus’s fault. He’d arrived on time—only fifteen minutes late, which was all Blaise could expect of someone so chronically last-minute—and he’d brought a bottle of wine. Most likely because he’d because he’d been told that was the polite thing to bring one’s dinner host, and it was the wrong wine for pasta, but Blaise didn’t mention that.

Although he was beginning to think he might, just for something to say. They’d been doing all right before dinner started, because they had managed to fill the silence with things such as “Could you get some silverware?” And “Sure, in this drawer? Need a hand with that pasta?”

And then they’d sat down, and Seamus told him that it was very good and he was very impressed and didn’t know that Blaise could cook like this.

“Of course I can,” Blaise had replied. “I’m a Zabini. But thank you.”

Seamus had smiled in return. It was that endearing, self-conscious smile that Blaise half-remembered noticing back at Hogwarts. Back when any knowledge of a boy named Seamus Finnigan was eclipsed by Terry Boot, the sharp, beautiful, blue-haired siren.

Was there nothing to say to him? Nothing appropriate, anyway. Nothing polite and conversational and if that was the case, the relationship must be doomed before it had even really begun. He remembered having things to say to Terry. Stupid things, sometimes. Trivial things. And, more often than not, just the simple statement, “You’re beautiful.”

Terry had understood that one.

Seamus wouldn’t . . . Blaise couldn’t just tell him. It wouldn’t work. Or, at least, that’s what he was trying to convince himself of. But Seamus was.

Seamus was beautiful, with his ordinary, wholesome face whose attractiveness was drawn mostly from its honesty, its open kindness. He was beautiful with his easy-going manner and his warm laugh and the way he was looking at that very moment, as if he was trying to read Blaise’s mind and see what he needed to say to make this horrible awkward silence end.

When all Blaise could think to do was to sweep the dishes off the table and pull Seamus onto it and—

This line of thinking wasn’t helping.

“Knut for your thoughts?” Seamus asked.

Blaise felt himself blushing. “Oh, well . . . I was just thinking that . . . I don’t know. What are you thinking?”

“That you’ll never cease to amaze me.”

“I . . . I won’t?”

He shook his head. “Once I think I’ve got you all figured out, I learn something new about you and then I’ve got to completely re-assess my vision of you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He shrugged, grinning. “Well, considering the fact that every time I do it, the vision improves, I guess it is.”

Blaise hesitated, taken a bit aback by that statement. But managed to return, with some semblance of composure, “In that case, I don’t think I could re-assess my vision of you.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t think my perception of you could take much more improving.”

It was, Blaise thought, one of his better attempts at expressing himself, and judging from Seamus’s pleasantly surprised expression, he would probably agree.

“Er . . . What are you doing?”

“Now, there’s a stupid question. I’m tying you to the bed, aren’t I?”

“I know that. But why?”

“Because I want to tie you to the bed. Is that so hard to understand?”

“With neckties.”

“Yes. With neckties. Now shut up.” He paused. “I didn’t tie them too tight, did I?”

“No. I’ve never done this before . . .”

“What? The sex bit? Or the necktie bondage bit?”

“The necktie bit . . . Do you think you could do this a little faster, maybe?”

Terry stood up and went to his dresser. “Patience is a virtue, Mervyn.” He pulled out a silver necktie and held it up for Mason to see. “What do you think? Nice color, isn’t it? Of course, it’s not really silk. He lied to me. Not that I believed him, of course.” Tossing it over his shoulder, he pulled out another. “Now this one is real silk.” He traced the diagonal silver-and-green stripes with one finger, smiling slightly. “It’s a bit too kinky schoolboy to wear on a daily basis, but you know . . . I have to admit that everyone needs the occasional dose of schoolboy kink, right?” He smiled crookedly and returned to Mason.

“I, well . . .”

“Yes?”

“My name’s Mason.”

“Is that all?”

“And I’m tied to a fucking bed with fucking neckties and I’m fucking naked.”

“You’re very observant, aren’t you? I bet you were the top of your class.” He finished tying the boy up, and leaned over him, his blood-red fringe falling over his eyes.

He licked his lips, Mason’s lips, Mason’s throat, as he traced his hands down Mason’s chest, his stomach, his hips, his thighs . . . And his tongue followed the path his hands had taken.

“Actually,” Mason stammered, “I . . . Uh, dropped out of school when I was . . . And then I—”

Terry stopped and shot Mason a dark look. “Do you ever shut up?”

“How ‘bout you take off your shirt and I shut up?” Mason tried to smile saucily, but couldn’t hide the fact that he was still a bit nervous.

“How about you stop pretending to be in charge and let me get on with it?” He sighed and undid the top button of his shirt. “Happier?”

“Yes. Okay. Keep going? Please?”

Terry rolled his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, before leaning forward again and tracing the tip of his tongue down Mason’s stomach. “Kids these days, I swear . . .”

“Kids? I’m not a kid. And you’re not as old as you pretend to—Oh, fuck, do that again!”

Terry smirked at Mason. “Told you.”

“Er, Ginger . . .”

“Yes?”

“Why do you call yourself Ginger?”

Ginger shrugged against Clarence, bare skin against bare skin, and held him closer, as if afraid of losing him. Or losing himself. “I guess it was one of my tutors who did it first. Because of my hair color.”

“He called you ‘Ginger’ because you had dark brown hair?”

“I dyed it dark brown . . . It was ginger. Once. But it didn’t suit me.”

“It didn’t?”

“Well, it didn’t suit who I thought I was going to be, then . . . What does it matter? Anyway, I wasn’t going to be Eugene Phelps anymore. Eugene was my father’s son, he was Cadwallader’s boy, he was supposed to be this scion, this pillar of Southern aristocracy and decency and gentlemanly heterosexuality. He was supposed to make small talk and court rich, well-bred girls with names like Muriel and Chastity, and that wasn’t me, Clarence. As I’m sure you noticed.”

“Yeah. But who did you think you were going to be?”

“Someone strong and independent and sophisticated. A heartbreaker, a libertine, an angel, a devil, a mystery . . . You can’t do that with ginger hair.”

“Can’t you?” Clarence stroked Ginger’s dark brown hair. “But you can do it when your name is Ginger . . .”

“But I didn’t, Clarence! I just pretended to. I just went through the motions, wrote myself a script and played my part as best I could . . . I was perfect at it, too, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I, sweetheart?”

Closing his eyes and holding the fragile boy close, Clarence whispered, “Almost. But nobody can keep it up forever.”

“Yeah. All it took to stop me was a letter from my father, some second-rate poison, and an intervention by a drag queen and the most beautiful irritable grocery boy in the world.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s . . . Wait, I’m beautiful?”

Ginger laughed softly. “Of course you are. You’re beautiful, and your brother just came in. Open your eyes, grocery boy. I think we have a sibling crisis on our hands.”

Clarence started and jerked away from Ginger. “Jesus, Calvin!”

“Jesus me? What about you? You’re the one on Mum’s new couch with a naked bloke!” The fifteen-year-old boy took a deep breath and tried to nod politely at Ginger. “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Ginger returned, with that disarming smile.

“I thought you were off getting pissed on liquor stolen out of Teddy’s parents’ cupboard and feeling up girls through their blouses,” Clarence said.

“Teddy's parents came home.”

“Well. Then. Do you want to go into your bedroom and leave the naked ones to their own devices?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

“Good. And tell us if you think Mum is coming.”

“I’m going to play very loud music.”

“You do that.”

“I don’t believe you! Neville Longbottom?”

Seamus nodded, eyes sparkling. “Can dance. I kid you not.”

Blaise smiled. “I never would have suspected.”

It was going better now, as they unceremoniously discarded the dinner dishes in the sink. Blaise was certain he heard at least one of the plates chip, but he ignored it. Stupid dishes probably deserved it, he reasoned. Always sitting around, wanting to be eaten off . . .

“Yeah, Neville was a man of many mysteries. Still is, I’d bet.”

“Yeah . . .”

Seamus paused, looking at Blaise as if to say, Now what?

Now what? Oh, Blaise had plenty of possible answers to that. Most of them, however, he knew he’d never have the courage to suggest.

Now what? Now I could embrace you passionately. Now we could make love on the kitchen table. Now I could tell you that I think I love you and that I tried to get over it, but I don’t think I will.

“I made cannoli.”

“I love cannoli.”

Blaise laughed. “Do you know what cannoli is?”

Shrugging, Seamus replied, “You made it.”

Terry’s tongue, Mason soon decided, might very well be the best thing he’d ever encountered. Even better than that punk band guitarist who had thrown a vodka-and-soda in his face once but would have probably been phenomenal in bed. If he weren’t straight. And an absolute wanker.

So, really, there was no competition.

At the same time, it was also the worst thing; Terry was taking it everywhere, the insides of Mason’s thighs, higher and higher, his stomach, lower and lower, and always getting closer . . . But never fucking getting there.

Just getting closer and closer and fucking closer, until he could feel Terry’s breath on him and he tried to move, but there were neckties and he couldn’t and . . . Oh, God, how long was he going to keep toying with him?

And then Terry stopped, propped his chin up in his elbows, gave Mason a faux innocent gaze, head tilted and expectant.

Mason drew in a ragged breath and tried to glare at him. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe later.” Terry smirked and with those devious, mismatched eyes still fixed on Mason’s face, he licked those glossy lips and then leaned slowly, painfully slowly forward and flicked his tongue over Mason, far too quickly.

Mason gasped, bit his lip to try to keep from gasping, shuddered, thought, Oh, Jesus, fuck! Goddamnit . . . And he couldn’t remember ever wanting anything so much ever before.

And Terry bloody knew it, too . . . So he seemed determined to draw it out, to tease him, to make him hurt, drive him insane, make him stop biting his lip and give in and ask for it.

He went back to Mason’s thighs, moved towards Mason’s knees, counting silently in his head. I give the kid ten seconds. One, two, three, four, five—

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” He tried to sit up to look at him, and Terry looked back, calm and questioning, as if he didn’t know. As if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. “If you’re going to do it, just . . . do it, okay? Please?”

Terry tried not to laugh. They were all so predictable. They were all the same.

But he loved them.

He hated them.

But he loved them.

Or maybe he just loved torturing them.

Torturing Mason by drawing the tip of his tongue up Mason’s cock. And then, suddenly taking him in entirely, a smirk hiding somewhere still in those eyes.

And Mason gasped and cried out as Terry took a ragged eternity before drawing away, nearly drawing away, not really pulling away after all, but going back. Going back with his tongue, twisting and wet and awful and perfect. And . . .

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ, Clarence!”

“Er, hello, Mum. Ginger was just going.”

“I was?” He blinked. “Oh! Oh, yes, I was. Sorry, Missus . . . Uhm . . .”

“Duffy,” Clarence supplied. “Mrs. Duffy.”

“Right. Mrs. Duffy. But I really must get back to my place and . . . Sleep. Important day tomorrow.”

Mrs. Duffy gave her son a hard look. “You’re going to send your guest away without even letting me make him a proper cup of tea?”

“Well . . . I just didn’t think that . . .”

“I like tea,” Ginger volunteered, smiling coquettishly at Clarence.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Clarence muttered in return.

“Jesus Christ,” Seamus said, surprised. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Blaise countered. “Nobody ever told you?”

“Not in so many words, no.”

“Well, you are. Very sexy.” Blaise knew his cheeks were going pink and he pretended to study his cannoli intensely. “None of those other boys said that? All your eyeliner boys and not a single one ever thought to tell you?”

Shrugging, Seamus answered, “They might’ve mentioned it, I guess, but they never meant it. Just surprised that you do.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Still studying the pastry in his hands.

“Well, face it, I’m no Terry Boot.” He took away Blaise’s cannoli, forcing Blaise to look at him. “And I’m no Blaise Zabini.”

Blaise arched an eyebrow and tried to reclaim his dessert. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean that you’re very sexy yourself, you prat. Not that you need to be told.”

“Oh, don’t I?” Blaise made another attempt to take his cannoli back, and Seamus laughed. “At any rate, it’s not like I mind being told.”

“’Course you don’t.” Seamus broke the pastry shell and scooped the filling out with his fingers.

“Er, what are you going to do with that?”
Seamus contemplated. “I don’t know. Haven’t thought it through yet. But this is a definite option.”

And with that, he smeared it across Blaise’s face: One cheek, the other, a line of thick cream filling down the length of his nose and one across his mouth.

Blaise blinked. “I didn’t see that coming.”

Seamus laughed. “Neither did I. But it’s a means to an end.”

Blaise studied Seamus carefully. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?” Seamus licked the cannoli off one cheek, pulling Blaise closer when he tried to recoil. “Of course, this wasn’t how I envisioned it going.” He licked his other cheek. “I thought that the first time I kissed Blaise Zabini, it would be something a little less gooey and a little more serious.”

“You haven’t kissed me yet. You’ve just licked my face. Anyway, I already kissed you once. Sixth year in the boys’ room, remember? After I asked you about Terry . . . And then I ignored you until we graduated.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I guess we already blew that then, huh?”

“No, let’s not count it.” Licking the cannoli filling off his own lips, he continued, “We could get it right this time, couldn’t we?”

“Sure. Only you just ruined my poorly thought-out, spur-of-the-moment plan to get our lips together. Of course, if we’re going to kiss properly, I guess it’s all—”

He was silenced by Blaise Zabini.

Or, more specifically, Blaise Zabini’s mouth. Against his. Warm and still a bit cannoli-sticky, tentative and searching. As if he thought he shouldn’t be doing this and was going to pull away and apologize.

Seamus pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around him, kissed him back, almost fiercely, realizing as he did so that this was what he had wanted to do . . . All those nights at the club, seeing him, talking to him, convincing himself that he wasn’t interested in Blaise, that Blaise wouldn’t be interested in him. All those nights, wanting someone real and meaningful and never letting himself realize that person was within arms’ reach.

And Blaise wrapped his own thin arms around Seamus, hesitantly.

Seamus didn’t know how long it had been since Blaise had done this. Or how important it was to him.

But he could guess.

“I still have that shit all over my nose, don’t I?” Blaise murmured against Seamus lips, smiling.

“Yes, but you’ll have to take care of that yourself. I don’t lick noses. I’m not that weird.”

Blaise laughed and wiped his face on Seamus’s t-shirt.

“Hey!” Seamus protested, trying to sound indignant and failing.

“I had to do it,” Blaise said with another kiss. “Means to an end.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you’ll have to take your shirt off now, won’t you?”

Seamus heard some of the old Slytherin sly confidence behind the mock-innocence in Blaise’s voice and countered with, “No, I think you might have to take my shirt off.”

Blaise’s eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t expected to be given such an opportunity. “I—Really?”

“Sure. I mean . . . If you want to, of course.”

“Of course I—Do you want me to?”

The intently serious gaze Blaise had fixed on him with that question told Seamus that his reply was very important.

Mycroft had warned Seamus to be very careful with Blaise Zabini. To keep from doing or saying anything he didn’t mean. To try very hard not to hurt him. And Seamus, puzzled, said, “I’m not planning to do anything, Mycroft. And I would never want to hurt Blaise.”

Well, planning to or not, he was definitely doing something now . . . He just wasn’t sure what. But he wanted to keep doing it. But . . . What exactly did that mean? This wasn’t just sex; he’d known that long before the idea had even entered his mind. He’d always known that Blaise Zabini was different than most other people he knew. More serious, maybe, in more ways than one.

But . . .

“Yeah, Blaise. I think I do.” He kissed him, gently. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but God knows it’s nothing I wouldn’t dearly love to do.”

Blaise hesitated. What if he’s not serious? What if this is just some one-night stand? But he’s Seamus. He’s decent. Isn’t he? And, really, Blaise, what are you afraid of? You can take rejection. You’ve done it before. So what are you waiting for, your knight in shining armor? Maybe this is it. After all, you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs . . . Shit, I’m mixing metaphors.

Somehow, with the sort of skill he’d had once and forgotten, he pulled Seamus closer, mouth on mouth, tongue against tongue, pulling Seamus’s shirt up as he ran his hands over his back, his chest, let the two of them separate enough for Seamus to take the shirt off, toss it aside, and go back to the fevered kissing with hands groping at each other, awkward, tender and rough. Seamus’s hands working under Blaise’s shirt, under the waistband of Blaise’s black jeans, undoing the button, the zipper, as Blaise’s fingers tangled in Seamus’s fire-tipped sandy hair.

And Blaise gasped, bit his lip, kissed Seamus harder, almost drawing blood, as Seamus worked one of his hands into Blaise’s jeans, and breathed against Blaise’s neck, “I knew you had a thing for lace . . .”

Blaise’s lips led a trail, frenzied and clumsy, across Seamus’s face, his forehead, as Seamus pushed down Blaise’s jeans, his dark red lace underwear with the black roses.

“Seamus, what are . . . ?”

“Exactly what I want to do, Blaise.”

“Oh . . .”
And Blaise’s fingers tangled in Seamus’s fire-tipped sandy hair, harder, nearly painful, twisting against the back of his head, gripping at his neck, as Blaise tried not to cry out . . .

And, too soon, not soon enough, Mason came and Terry drew away, licked his lips, laughed silently, unbuttoned his shirt, let it fall to the carpet. And led a trail of nearly-tender kisses across Mason’s chest, slick with sweat, and climbed on top of him, straddling him at the waist, leaned over him. Blood-red fringe brushed the boy’s face as Terry kissed him, hard and wet, teeth scraping lips, and smiled against his mouth.

“Having fun?” Mason asked.

Terry untied the neckties binding Mason’s wrists and stood up to untie the ones around his ankles. Leaning against the bedpost and studying the boy with a cool, detached hunger and an almost secretive smirk, he replied, “Having fun? Oh, no, my dear boy. The fun part is just about to begin.”

“Really?” Mason sat in the center of the bed, head inclined with a hopeful expression. “Is the part where you fuck me senseless like you promised?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh.”

“Probably.”

“Oh, good.”

“I haven’t entirely decided . . .”

“Oh . . .”

Undoing the row of buttons on his trousers and stepping out of them, Terry sat down beside Mason on the bed.

Mason tried not to stare, but, oh God, was he beautiful. He was pale and slender and perfect, with a sort of feline grace, a sort of confident agility, cool and lithe, that made Mason feel clumsy and awkward beside him. Pale and slender and perfect and flawless, save for an intricate tattoo of bunches of flowers, petals tipped with red like blood, working its way up his left forearm. It seemed large and strange and out-of-place and—

“Do you like it?” Terry asked, catching Mason staring at the tattoo.

“I don’t know. It’s all right. What are they?”

“Hyacinths.” At Mason’s blank look, he explained, “They’re . . . Symbolic. Ever read any mythology?”

“’Course not.”

Terry shrugged, traced one of the flowers with a fingertip. “He killed his lover. He didn’t meant to . . . And the flowers grew from the blood that was spilled . . .”

Mason chuckled incredulously. “What, you kill your lover?” When Terry didn’t reply, he said, “It’s all right, I guess. A bit excessive, though, if you ask me.”

“Well, I had to cover the old one up, didn’t I?” Terry’s voice broke, like a crack in his cool-and-nonchalant veneer, revealing something raw and painful beneath. Something that, if exposed, would strip Terry more than just physically naked, would expose him and leave him vulnerable. He passed a hand over his eyes. “Never mind. It’s just that it was . . . ugly . . . I wanted to get rid of it, but some things never really fade away.”

Mason nodded, pretending to understand. “Regretted it, huh? Well, they always say, ‘To err is human.’ I mean . . . You’re really beautiful. I mean—Well, I mean that.”

“Am I?” The too-familiar condescending smile was creeping back into his voice.

“Yeah.”

“I know that, Mason. You’re far from the first to mention it.” He pushed him backward, only half-playfully, so that the boy lay on his back on the bed, a surprised look on his face. “And believe me, you won’t be the last.”

Mason grinned. “Far from it, I’m sure.”

Terry laughed and climbed on top of him. “Oh, yes. I’ve been called beautiful before. Many times. Been called many other things, too, come to that.”

“You called me Mason,” he said, pulling Terry close to kiss him, too awkward and eager, and ran a hand down that pale, perfect back, brushed his fingertips along the inside on one pale, perfect thigh, higher and closer, until he took Terry in his hand and remarked, as casually as he could, “First time all night you got my name right.”

Biting his lower lip, eyes fluttering briefly shut, Terry took a deep breath and said, “I thought this was supposed to be the part where I fuck you absolutely senseless.”

“Maybe,” Mason said, echoing Terry’s remarks from just minutes earlier. “Probably.” He continued, stroking, caressing, teasing, slowly at first, then faster, wishing he could throw Terry off and get on top of him and pay him back in kind for those what-seemed-like-hours of delicious torture with his own tongue, his own mouth . . . “I haven’t entirely decided.”

Drawing in his breath with a sharp hiss, Terry merely replied, “Clever boy.”

Perfectly. It was still a subjective term, but Blaise suspected that things were much closer to the “going perfectly” mark now. At least, he’d stopped trying to figure it out. Just go with it, Zabini. You’ve never let yourself do that before. Always thinking, gauging, judging . . . When was the last time you did something like this? Something thoughtless and spontaneous and passionate?

Not since Terry Boot.

And that was—Quelle dommage, that was a long time ago.

And afterwards, he supposed he could almost count The Draco Malfoy Mistake. But that was again with the quelle dommage and the long time ago.

“It’s quite late, isn’t it?” Seamus said, a murmur into Blaise’s ear in the darkness.

“I suppose it is. It must be.”

“Do you want me to leave, then?”

“No, don’t. It’s quite late, after all.”

“Oh, good.” Seamus rested his head on Blaise’s shoulder, and added, “I don’t think I would have wanted to go anyway.”

And stroking Seamus’s hair idly, Blaise agreed, “I wouldn’t want you to, either. It’s been . . .” Been what? A lovely evening? That wasn’t what you called the first sex you had in a quelle dommage long time.

Seamus kissed Blaise’s neck, soft and loving, held him close, tried not to figure out what he’d done. “Don’t hurt him, Seamus,” Mycroft had warned. “Don’t do anything. Be careful.”

I wasn’t careful, Mycroft. I did something. Everything. But I didn’t hurt him. I would have if I hadn’t done anything . . . And it would have hurt me, too. I don’t know what I’m doing; I’m Seamus Finnigan, I don’t think things through, I’m not careful—But I know that whatever I’m doing, I’ve got to do it. I want to do it.

Blaise was, Seamus thought again, different than most people . . . Different than Fred Weasley, who had been fun and exciting but had never equated love in Seamus’s mind. He was sex and diversion and knew it and wanted it that way. And so it had been with the others . . . Seamus always knew that if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. He was interchangeable, because fucking was fucking and none of it had mattered to them. But Blaise was different. Seamus wasn’t interchangeable here. If it wasn’t him, there would be nobody else. Nobody else mattered to Blaise, and fucking wasn’t just fucking—It was . . . Oh, Christ, he’d always thought it a silly sentimental term, “making love.”

“Seamus?”

“Yes, Blaise?”

“Are . . . Are you crying?” He sounded worried, afraid he’d done something horribly wrong. Afraid he’s done something to hurt Seamus, to make him cry . . .

“No. I don’t think so.”

Making love. A phrase for songs and stories: Feel like makin’ love . . . Juliet, when we made love, you used to cry . . .

They collapsed, soaked with sweat and sex, and breathless. Mason wanted to pull him closer, to feel his heartbeat against his own, but couldn’t. It wasn’t right, somehow. Not with Terry. But, after a minute, he managed to say, “Senseless. Absolutely senseless.”

Terry chuckled. “As promised.” He sat up. “I’ve had better, of course . . .”

“Oh, thanks.” Mason wiped his forehead with the back of hand, smearing it with seven phone numbers’ worth of biro. “I haven’t.”

“I know.” Terry stood, went into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. “I knew your name was Mason,” he called. “My memory’s not that bad. I just didn’t want you to think it was important.”

“Don’t worry,” Mason returned quietly, mostly to himself. “I knew I wasn’t. But then again, neither are you.”

“Would you like to use the shower after I’m done?”

“No, thanks,” Mason called back, trying to sound glib and devil-may-care. “I should probably be getting home.”

“Hmmm, good idea. Getting quite late, I imagine.”

“Yes, it is . . . Good night, Terry Boot.”

Terry reappeared in the bathroom doorway, a bit bemused. “I don’t recall ever telling you my name.”

“Don’t worry,” Mason told him, dressing himself carefully. “You didn’t.”

Terry frowned slightly.

“Good night, Terry Boot.”

“Good night, Mason.”

Terry pretended to go back to the shower then, and waited until he heard the door to his flat open and close. Then, wearily, he went back out, curled up on his bed, and cried.

Not for Mason, who might as well have been as nameless as Terry had wanted himself to be.

Not for any of the other boys just like Mason, that he picked up and had his way with when he tired of his fifty-Sickles-for-the-powder-room ratmen.

Not for those ratmen, who used Terry like Terry used the boys.

Not for a hyacinth tattoo and not for the people who would understand why he had it, what it was hiding.

Not for the boy Terry had been thinking of when he said “I’ve had better” . . . That Slytherin schoolboy with delusions of kindness and decency, whose green-and-silver tie Terry had stolen.

Not for the sweet blokey Irish boy who had once believed in him.

And not for the ex-professor who hadn’t.

He cried because when all of those things were added together, nothing was gained and everything was lost.

And it would never change.

VANILLA WISHES

Thu, 02 Feb 2006 21:06:02 GMT

The sweatslick promise
Hanging quivering
Like seven drops of silver
From unliterary lips
Hands clammy and clasping
As silence whispers in
The space between
Heavy
Until it falls
In splashing syllables
And dies in the
Tennis-shoe pavement
Dried by the maladroit wind

FROM THE TREE

Fri, 27 Jan 2006 21:58:17 GMT

FROM THE TREE

Your pink fairy shirt
Brings out your pink
Tinged cheeks, flushed
With laughter and
Heat.
Makes your blue eyes
Sparkle like
Marbles in the stream

In the river, where
You and I
Began and ended
And shed your
Pink fairy shirt
And my
Lily sweatshirt,
Soaked through with
Pretending to forget.

WINTERCOLD PLEAS

Wed, 18 Jan 2006 05:32:53 GMT

Don't dare turn away
And leave me here
Like a sheet of newsprint
Blowing in the wind
Caught around a lamppost
And tearing---

Don't dare pretend
You didn't see
Or didn't think
It matted to look
As you turn your head
And drive past
An accident scene
On the side of your road
A tableau of my
Crash-and-fall---

Don't dare wipe
Your bourbon kisses
From my lips and
Erase the only marks
To say you knew me
And leave me a
Blank chalkboard
Waiting to be
Written on.

Really Crap Poems From Over the Winter Hols

Wed, 18 Jan 2006 05:28:02 GMT

AFFECTED DISILLUSION

Those who say that
It doesn't have to
Be this way
Do not know
To whom they speak.
And those who
Instead agree
With their silence
Are no better,
Finding the accused
Guilty
Simply because
They will not raise
A voice in defense.

For they know
To whom they do not speak.
And find defense futile,
A waste to protect a
Paper wasps' nest shell
From the truths it
Manifested for itself.

BEING A SHORT DIVERSION ON THE ORIGINS OF THE VOID (TRANSLATED FROM THE PENNSYLVANIA ALBINO)

They told me all
I needed was love
But didn't tell me
what it meant.
Whether it was
My own love, born
From a secret heart-chamber
Deep inside myself,
Or others' love for me,
Absent and elusive.
For if it be the former,
I should have all I need
And never have to
Worry again.
But perhaps I'm to use it,
Share it, give it away in
Pained, crippled handfuls like
Wet rice and faded newsprint
And leave myself naked and empty
Without even my secrets to
Light the lamps and
Keep the truth at bay.

CAN'T CHASE THE PAIN AWAY

Fri, 13 Jan 2006 05:21:24 GMT

“You’re never going to say anything to him, are you?” Mycroft sat across from Blaise at one of the audience tables in the club.

“No.”

“Why not? Don’t you want to?”

“Of course I want to . . . I mean, every day, there he is, right within arm’s reach. And sometimes . . .” Blaise blushed, looked at his hands. “Stupid, I know. I’m just deluding myself. Wanting to believe it could be possible. But sometimes . . . Sometimes I almost think he might be interested too. Maybe. But then I realize that I’m kidding myself. That even though he’s within arm’s reach, I can’t have him. Every day, right there, and sometimes, often, in the back of my mind, I see myself just . . . Kissing him. You know . . . There will be these moments when I could. I technically could. It’s possible . . . But at the same time, it’s impossible. I can’t do it. It will never happen, Mycroft. And I’ll never tell him.”

“Why not? Don’t you want to?”

“I want to do a lot of things that I won’t. Everybody does. Temptation and resistance.”

“Why resist?”

“You know Adam and Eve and the Tree of Knowledge? Right within reach for them too, and it made so much sense to taste the fruit, didn’t it? And they felt they had the right, didn’t they? He was the only man, and she the only woman. But I’m one of four billion men and not much of one at that. I’ve got no right. Besides, they could just take the apple and eat it, couldn’t they? They didn’t have to think about its happiness, its well-being . . . I don’t want to do anything to him. I know what would happen if I told him. Whatever sort of friendship he felt for me would be shattered. I would never be able to make things all right again. It’s not important enough anyway. What I feel. What I think I feel. I mean, I’ve been living with this thing so long that I’m not sure how important it is anymore. Maybe I just think I love him out of habit. But if I don’t really love him, then why does it get more painful all the time?”

“Why should you let it?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I can handle pain. Especially this kind of pain, dull and empty and . . . I’ve never held delusions of happiness, anyway. I just want to survive, get by, live as best I can . . .”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s how it is. I wasn’t made for being together with . . . Someone. Whoever. Anyone. I’m not stupid. I know my own faults. I’m too cold, too quiet, too used to keeping everything to myself. I wouldn’t know how to share all that with someone else. You know, it wasn’t so painful every day before I told you and Dove. But telling you was like admitting it, making it real and concrete and somehow okay. Like it’s all right for me to be in love. Even when it isn’t. Wait—No. That’s not quite right. It’s all right for me to be in love; it’s just not all right for me to do anything about it. What would that give him? Nothing. What could I give him? Nothing.”

“Give him? What the hell are you talking about?”

Blaise laughed mirthlessly. “I’m not talking about money or power. God knows I lost all that long ago . . . I mean, well, I don’t know how to put it exactly. I don’t mean just sex, although perhaps that’s a part of it. Terry Boot told me once that I wasn’t much of a lover . . . Too careful, too tame, too tentative, or something . . . But he’s probably right, in any case. I know I’m not particularly . . . I don’t know what to call it. It’s not a matter of being attractive or unattractive. But I’m not a, well, not a sexual being, if that makes sense. Even so, that’s not all of it. I just don’t know how to have a . . . A boyfriend. It just feels strange saying it. That was part of the problem with Terry, maybe. I knew I loved him, I knew I wanted him, but I didn’t know what to do once I had him. How to act, what to say, and all those things that we’re supposed to inherently know.” He sighed. “And now it’s even more complicated. Let’s just suppose for a minute that I decided to come clean and tell Seamus all of this. And let’s suppose that he was to return the sentiment on some level.. Just pretend that for a moment . . . Then what? We’ve got our sort of rocky friendship already. We’re just barely used to getting along the way we do now.”

“Still. Blaise. Couldn’t you figure it out as you went along?”

“I’m not romantic.”

“On the contrary. You’re very romantic. You’re just also very reserved and very bad at expressing yourself.”

“Maybe so. I’ll get over him, anyway. Eventually.”

“Been going on a year now, hasn’t it?”

“A year isn’t that long, in the great scheme of things. And if I can’t stand it anymore, eventually, I guess I’ll just quit. Which will be tantamount to telling him that I love him, I guess, but at least I won’t have to see his reaction. At least I won’t have to make him reject me. Which is what telling him would be. It would basically be telling him to tell me that he doesn’t love me. And he would hate having to do it, wouldn’t he? He’d think he was breaking my heart, letting me down, crushing some sort of hope of mine. But he wouldn’t know that I wasn’t hoping for anything. And that he couldn’t break my heart . . . Maybe I’m nearly unbreakable. Maybe I—” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just used to it.”

“Used to having a broken heart?”

“Used to unrequited love. So much safer. And as long as they don’t know, you can keep it. As long as he doesn’t know, I can still talk to him, I can be near him. Small prize, maybe, but I’ll take what I can.” Blaise shook his head. “God, you must think I’m a fool.”

“Only if you don’t figure yourself out.”

“I’ve got it figured out. You’ve just got me second-guessing myself.”

Mycroft sighed, shook his head, and stood up. “Suit yourself. I just don’t want to have to see both of you pretend to ignore what you’ve got staring you in the face. You sell yourself short, sometimes, I think. You’re not the completely undesirable person you think you are, you know. You’re capable of being in love. Not unrequited love. But honest-to-God love . . . Someday, you might realize it.”

PROPOSITION

Fri, 06 Jan 2006 04:49:07 GMT

i could hurt you---
put blisters on your blisters
and bruises on your sores

and

you wouldn't stop me,
you wouldn't notice
the difference

and we could you could i could
lick the razorblades
bite at each other
snap veins and suck
at scarlet as if
it would help

until we believed
it did.

BROKEN CHRISTMAS

Thu, 22 Dec 2005 05:50:29 GMT

Broken Christmas

Thoughts Compressed and Stormy Weather

I wondered how I should start this story, but then I realized that maybe it’s not even a story after all. Maybe it’s just something that could have been. Something that could have been a story, if it had happened in a different place, a different time, to different people . . . Instead of to us. Here. Now. Where we had the courage to start the story, but not to finish it.

Where he had the courage to start it.

And I was too afraid to take the next step.

My name is—or was—Jethro. Jethro Marjoram, no middle name. Jethro Marjoram, no middle name, no father, an alcoholic mother, a house that had never been home. I was afraid of her, maybe, or of myself. I used to blame myself for her anger, used to believe she was right, used to believe that I was the problem . . .

His name was Queenie. Queensboro Plantagenet Wormwood. You want to ask how you get a name like that, but you don’t. You’re taught not to point out differences, only samenesses. Only I didn’t have any samenesses to point out in either of us. Sure, we were just a pair of high school kids like any others . . . Except that we weren’t.

I was the school transvestite, to put it as simply as I can. I remember the long hours of wanting lip gloss and glitter and the sort of serene and pink and soft grace that I wasn’t supposed to want but did anyway, until one day I filched a tube of sweet slick watermelon lipstick from the back counter of five-and-ten and it was all downhill from there. Or uphill. Either way, it was a guise of glitter and makeup and lace stockings, it was hiding in pearls and nail polish. A sort of pseudo-classy Audrey Hepburn starlet debutante thing I started and wasn’t sure I fit, but—All right.

I didn’t fit it.

But that was easy enough to see. I was just playing a part . . .

And I think Queenie could tell from the moment he met me, but he let me pretend anyway.

He was . . . Well, you’d call him the school Goth, but that wasn’t it. Pale, scrawny kid with long dyed-black hair falling across half his face, with the black eyeliner, black lipstick, and the earrings. Thirteen of them, a coil of silver around the edge of one ear.

And a secret yen for hair metal and showtunes. And for old films with Humphrey Bogart. And books like Silverlock and Slaughterhouse-Five . . .

And, apparently, me.

Larvae Diptera

I try not to worry about him much, even when he disappears for days on end and comes back pale and weepy-red-eyed and snaps at me when I speak. Cold and defensive, fragile and shivering. I tried not to worry after the Incident and he swore he was never going back to That Place and finally Titus, his guardian, kind old man, looked me up in the Marx Falls phone book and told me that he couldn’t “get Queensboro out of the attic.”

Queenie lived in the attic, where old Titus with his bad leg couldn’t climb the narrow ladder-stairs and bother him with his kindly old man British thoughts.

Queenie loved Titus. I think.

And Titus loved him, I think, and couldn’t get him out and asked me to try. I went up the ladder-stairs to Queenie’s too-familiar lair of twisted metal bits stolen from junkyards and posters of vaguely fey men from bands like Cinderella and Bon Jovi, back when he had the purple pants. There was one with Axl Rose, beautiful and come-hither, over Queenie’s bed.

Queenie’s bed, where Queenie was, hiding under his black bedspread, insisting in a muffled voice that he was not returning to That Place, not after the Incident.

“I have soup,” I’d said stupidly, holding out a bowl of chowder Titus had given me to give him. “Chowder, really. Look, you love chowder. Because you’re weird like that---I mean, in a good way, of course. Not like Karen and Priscilla thought when they . . .”

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!” He pulled down his bedspread enough to glare at me. “Stop bringing that up, all right? I mean, I don’t care either way, you know. Because it’s not true . . . But it was a fucking cheerleader’s uniform! And---Jesus. You said something about chowder, yeah?”

I hold it out to him and he sits up, takes it, and eats, as I pretend not to see the fresh raw marks on his arms, words like “FAGGOT” and “FAIRY” cut in, deep and unforgiving. All the screamed epithets from the day of the Incident, before he turned and ran.

Maybe I should have said something.

But it wouldn’t have made any difference.

And so we didn’t talk about it . . .

We did, however, talk about the rotting corpses. The rotting carcasses. Whatever.

I wouldn’t have asked if they hadn’t taken Axl’s place on his ceiling: Print-out photos of people and animals in varying stages of post-mortem decay, with their names written by Queenie in Magic Marker. Millicent, Laura, Beans, Audrey, Red Red Robin . . .

“What the hell is that, Quee?”

“Decay.”

“I . . . Well, yeah. But why?”

“It fascinates me.” He yawns, turns a page of his pre-war nudie mag. “It’s what we do. After we die, we decay physically, right? But all our lives, we’re decaying inside . . . Our souls atrophy, rot, slowly, until there’s nothing left to speak of.” With a slight smile, he continues matter-of-factly, “I don’t like the pictures where you can see the maggots. They’ve alive and moving around, and the whole point of this tableau is death. They’re keeping your corpse company, you see, and there’s nobody inside you keeping your dead soul company. So I don’t like the maggot pictures. That, and they look like wriggly rice.”

“I . . . Never thought of that.”

“I know.”

I sighed and watched him pretending to read his magazine, the way he pressed his lips together in an effort not to cry, or sigh, or look like he cared.

And I told myself not to worry; Queenie Wormwood would be all right.

He almost always was.

Bah Humbug

But this was my Christmas story. No Red Ryder BB-guns or dentist elves or angels named Clarence.

Just me and Queensboro Plantagenet Wormwood and a calculus textbook one winter afternoon in his living room, where we could smell the chowder Titus had on in the kitchen. He was teaching me how to do God-knows-what and I was watching him scribble out equations and diagrams, trying to look interested in what he was doing.

Trying not to look interested in his pale, long-fingered hands, graceful like a woman’s, nails painted black and chipping, as they wrote, erased, flipped textbook pages, shoved that long black hair out of his eyes. And once, bit his thumbnail, smearing his thumb and index finger with greasy black lipstick.

The tinny Christmas carols from the kitchen urged me bring us some figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer, and I heard myself say, “What do you want for Christmas?”

“You to pass this fucking calculus course so I never have to learn this crap just so I can explain it to you again.”

“Really.”

“Jesus. I don’t know. What, are you going to buy me a present?” He laughed shortly, a sneer in voice as he chided, “How lovely and domestic of you. Commercial America claims another sentimentalist victim.”

“Well, I’m your friend, and so I thought . . . Forget it. I take it I shouldn’t be holding my breath for your gift to me, either?”

“You could. Some people dig self-induced asphyxiation.”

“Wanker.”

He cackled. “This is Ame-ree-ca, dipstick. We call each other motherfucker here!”

“Do we now?” I arched an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah. Get your hands off my woman, motherfucker!”

“Since when do you have a woman? Anyway, I might get you something anyway. Because I can. And because I’m graduating this year, so it might be my last chance.”

He looked away, studied his fingernails, then said, “Only if you pass Calculus.”

And Nothing You Dismay

“You want your Christmas present?”

It was Christmas Eve, snowfall and all, and I stood on the front porch, waiting for him to step aside and let me in.

Which he does, after a sigh and an upward glance.

“What’d you get me?”

“Open it.”

“Okay, okay . . . Les Fleurs du Mal.” He smiled crookedly at me. “You know me too well.”

I nodded. “Merry Christmas, then. I guess I’d better go. My mother will . . .”

He nodded back. “Yeah, I know. But---Shit. I had---Well, I didn’t get you a present, per se, but I . . .” He bit his lower lip. “It was over the . . .”

And he was gone back down the hall. I heard the front door open and close, and he was back, twisting something in his hands. “It’s ridiculously maudlin of me, you know. And theatrical. And, well, really stupid. But I figured it wouldn’t take, anyway, so it’s okay, right? This sort of thing only works for Audrey Hepburn. And, you know, even then, sometimes Gregory Peck walks away.” He shook his head. “Sorry. I . . .” Pressing the whatever-it-is into my winter-gloved hand, he steered me back through the front door, and said, sending me back into the night, “But I wanted to be George Peppard. Paul Varjak, you know . . . Merry Christmas, Holly Golightly. Merry fucking Christmas . . .”

And he shut the door, leaving me to walk home in the snowy night, twirling a sprig of mistletoe between my fingers.

KEROUAC IN A TIN CAN

Fri, 28 Oct 2005 03:43:58 GMT

Kerouac in a Tin Can

We always wanted to
Escape, you and I---
Or maybe just me: I
Wanted to break
Out of this tired town
Wind and rain and sun
Ahead and nothing but
Mildewed memories behind,
Draped over plumbing
And dripping.
I want air, more air
Than I could ever
Hope to breathe.
I want to leave
Almost everything.
Almost.
I want to escape,
Just me
And you.

BLATANT RIPOFF (TUESDAY KISSES #42)

Fri, 28 Oct 2005 03:11:44 GMT

Blatant Ripoff (Tuesday Kisses #42)

I didn't ever want to
see you again.
Because,
when I did, I
knew I would never
look away.
My God.
There are no
words describe
the way my throat
closes up when you
smile at me and
I'm afraid to
open my mouth.
Because if I did,
I'd swallow you whole.
And there would only
be lips: your lips,
my lips, and this
godawful poem to
try to explain it
to you after it's
too late.

PLAYTHINGS

Sat, 22 Oct 2005 16:55:59 GMT

Playthings

The rag doll could watch the china doll
From the bottom of the bookshelf
Where she hid to be sure that the
China doll
Could not see.

Where the china doll could not
See the rag doll's faded floral smock and
Compare it to her own laces and
Satins and laugh like
Silver bells at the
Rag doll.

The rag doll could watch the china doll,
The way the sunlight hit the curves
Of her perfect painted cheeks
And shone in her glass eyes and
The way those tiny, delicate hands
Clutched that tiny, delicate nosegay
Of silk flowers in pink and periwinkle.

And imagined

Those tiny, delicate fingers
Untying a faded, floral smock,
China touching cloth
And clumsy cotton hands like mittens
Fumbling with the bead buttons of a
Lace and satin frock.

And imagined

Glossy curls slippery-smooth
Against limp yarn braids
Stiff, jointed limbs reaching for
Soft, flexible ones.

She imagines she'll be afraid.

She'll be afraid of breaking
The china doll,
Of scratching or chipping
Her perfect skin,
Of being too rough with
Something so fragile.

The rag doll knows she can't be hurt.
She is resilient, made for
Battering and bruising
And neglect.

And if she should get damaged,
If something tears too much
Or cuts too deep,
It's nothing a needle and thread
Can't fix and
Leave stitched scars upon her
Imperfect flesh.

THE LETTER

Sat, 22 Oct 2005 16:54:05 GMT

The Letter

I wrote a letter today
That I never will send.

Let the ink pour out like blood,
The stains forming
Alien words, black against white
And
Seeming to come from
Someone else
Somewhere else
Saying something else
Entirely.

Page after page,
After page
After page after
Page
Flutter to the floor around my
Desk
Dying leaves with veins
Of pain and struggle

And trying to untangle
My heartstrings, left balled
In a knot in the corner
For years, ignored and
Unused.

I didn’t need a heart.

I had a mind instead,
My shrewd foolish calculations
Filling the void that I had
Made myself,
Forcing myself to
Believe that

I didn’t need a heart.

I didn’t need it, for I did not
Have it anymore.
I gave it you one rainy night,
Slipped it into your
Coat pocket while you wrote
One of
My stories and I
Watched you from across
The room, through a veil of
Pipe smoke and shadow.

I gave it to you, but never told you.

I never wanted you to know
That I could fall in love

Not with you.

I was afraid of losing
You.
Afraid of being pushed away

By your morals,
Your damned Victorian sensibility,
Because you were not “that way” . . .

Or because you simply
Do not love me
In return.

So pages upon pages litter
The floor
Like snow
As I write a letter I
Will not send

That I will not let
Shatter your life,
Your wife,
Our friendship

And I write strange, fumbling
Alien words
Trying to say the three words
That have died on my lips
A thousand times . . .

I love you.

THE PRICE OF BLOOD (1)

Mon, 19 Sep 2005 03:05:23 GMT

Anthony knew it would be no use. He couldn’t resist Them. No-one could. Ritual was Important. The plaque on the wall opposite told him so:

RITUAL IS THE PULSE OF LIFE AND THE DRUMBEAT
OF THE DANCE WE CALL CIVILIZATION.

He should have supposed as much. “Hang Life,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, “and hang Civil-i-zation!”

And glanced around to be sure that wasn’t heard.

The wide one-side-glass doors swung open and a second pair of boots left their rubbery black streaks on the mirrored tile.

Anthony’s gaze caught the red Mark gouged into the heel of the left boot and his head snapped upward to study the face of the new arrival.

He was a stranger.

Anthony was surprised. He knew he shouldn’t be; he knew it would be foolish arrogance to believe he knew every Bloodsaint in the metrop.

The stranger studied Anthony with leery eyes. He was about Anthony’s own age and the two would look utterly interchangeable to Them. The same standard clothing of teenage boys—the same straight black trousers, the same heavy button-and-zip jacks, and the same brown fedoras pulled low over the eyes. And the same boots with the same Mark.

The stranger’s thin lips twitched, either in recognition or nervousness.

Anthony blinked back, his face blank as whitewash.

The stranger looked across the endless, empty foyer. “Ritual?” he whispered.

Anthony inclined his head in the suggestion of a nod.

Satisfied, the stranger looked at his feet, at his reflection in the gleaming floor.

Anthony’s hands, chapped and raw in fingerless gloves, clenched into fists. Ritual. Where were They? Ritual. When would They return? Ritual. Ritual. Damn Ritual. What was it? It wouldn’t kill him. He would get through it; mostly everyone did. Those who didn’t . . . Anthony crushed that strain of thought, forcing himself to think of something comfortable. Something warm and familiar, if such a thing existed for him.

He thought of Pochinko—the way he used to stand on a chair and drop bricks on the mice in their leilghet to kill them. The way he cringed when the brick hit its mark and there was a burst like a cherry tomato across the floorboards. The way Pochinko made Anthony clean it up, because he was too squeamish himself. Anthony thought of waist-length white-blond hair, trusting blue eyes, the most successful Bloodsaint in the metrop. The only person who had ever depended on Anthony.

For protection.

For security.

For love.

“What an outgrabe Tove,” Anthony murmured at the memory.

“What’s that?” The stranger removed his fedora and shoved a hand through his long, oily hair.

“Just a toff I know.”

“And he’s outgrabe about it?” The stranger arched an eyebrow.

Anthony felt a pang of loyalty. “Aaah, he’s not really a Tove. He was just a bother.”

The stranger nodded. “What’s your cogno?”

Anthony regarded him. At least he didn’t ask for my Name . . . “Murasaki.” The stranger blinked as if he recognized it. “Know it?”

“Murasaki? Heard of it.” He smirked. “Dangerous stuff. Not as dangerous as dealing with Toves and Momes, maybe. But less profitable, I’ll bet? My cogno’s Droga Ago. You know anything about the Ritual?”

Anthony’s eyes darted suspicion. “They don’t tell you rot. You’re not supposed to know.”

Droga grinned crookedly. “Cert, but there are still toffs I’ve heard that learned rot beforehand.”

“Stiffs.” Anthony sniffed.

Droga shrugged. “Some of them.”

Anthony fell silent, still unwilling to trust Droga.

He didn’t trust anyone.

Not even Pochinko.

The other set of doors opened with a whir and hiss, and one of Them walked out, toward Droga and Anthony. He was followed closely by a second.

The first glanced at his clipboard. “Christensen, Johann?”

Droga started and nodded meekly.

The second glanced at his. “Kilroy, Anthony?”

Anthony didn’t reply.

Droga looked at him.

Anthony glared into the tile. Damn Ritual. Damn Name.

“Come with us, please.” They turned back to the opened doors and beckoned Anthony and Droga to follow.

After leading the two down a long hallway of mirrors, They gestured Anthony and Droga into a small room.

“Change into these uniforms. Leave your other clothes.” They closed the door and disappeared.

“Shit,” Droga said, gingerly lifting one of the uniforms by its corners. “You know what I bet? I bet we never get out clothes back.”

“That would be a bit outgrabe, wouldn’t it?”

Droga shrugged. “Not for Them.”

Anthony ignored him. He knew he was right. Simply stealing their clothes would be too obvious. Maybe They’d bug them. Or even poison them. At any rate, They’d search them. Always looking for Bloodsaints, weren’t They?

Anthony picked up one of the uniforms, bleached white and starched crisp. He suppressed an involuntary shudder.

Droga tossed his button-and-zip aside and was pulling his undershirt over his head, exposing a pale, hollow chest. Anthony tore his gaze from the needle tracks tracing Droga’s sinewy arms.

“I thought you said you weren’t a Mome,” Anthony whispered, removing his own jack.

Droga sighed. “I said we were the most dangerous—--Toves and Momes.”

“I’m neither of those,” Anthony shot back.

In response, Droga merely arched an eyebrow.

Anthony slid into the white uniform and wished that Droga would stop looking at him with that bemused expression.

The uniforms were stiff and cool against their skin.

Droga stretched out his arms before him, studied them sheathed in their snowy sleeves. “I hate uniforms,” he confided.

Anthony shook his head to indicate that Droga should not continue.

Droga shoved his greasy hair out of his face, nodding to show he understood. “Cert . . . Think maybe They film this room with a hidden camera? Got it bugged with wires and mikeys?” He grinned. “Maybe They take the films and watch them over and over and over again . . . Watching toffs undress, ‘cause They’re probably all wishing for nice little Toves—nice little soft-tongue-boy—”

“Shut up.” Anthony’s cheeks felt hot. “Do—--you—--want—--Them—--to hear you?”

Droga didn’t answer and looked up at the mirrored ceiling.

Staring at the pile of clothes—two pairs of black trousers, two button-and-zips, two pairs of Marked boots—Anthony decided he hated uniforms too.

Two of Them returned, each bearing a syringe filled with sluggish liquid.

Droga caught Anthony’s eye and his lips curled into a small smile.

Anthony looked away.

They seized Anthony and Droga’s left arms and undid the rows of snaps on the sleeves, pushing them up and back.

Anthony pretended to flinch as the syringe plunged into his inner elbow and emptied into his veins.

He felt no change. Shifting his eyes to Droga, he watched in bleak fascination as the man tried to find a place to place his own syringe on Droga’s perforated arm.

And then he and Droga were taken in separate directions. It was silent, save for the padding of Anthony’s bare feet against the cold floor as he followed behind the man—as he followed one of Them.

Another room. Dim, with a single chair in its corner. Anthony was motioned inside and left, once again, alone.

“Sit down.” The voice came dead and scratchy from a speaker somewhere.

Anthony dropped into the chair.

“What is your Name?”

“Don’t They already know that?” Anthony murmured.

“What is your Name?”

“Anthony Kilroy,” Anthony answered promptly.

A brief expression of panic flickered across his face.

“Where are your parents?”

“Gone.”

“How long have they been gone?”

“Eight years . . .” Anthony remembered coming home, barely nine years old, and finding the leilghet empty. Finding a smear of red on the floorboards and the bookshelves overturned. The electric fan was still whirring and leaves of Anna Karenina fluttered and swirled as if caught in a breeze.

He remembered being alone after that, turning his mother’s customers away from the leilghet each night, shying at the cold hungry steel of their eyes.

He remembered opening his father’s letters, reading words he did not understand, and throwing them into the fire.

He remembered walking home through the sleet one night, a few months later, clutching a stolen loaf of bread to his chest. He remembered passing a young boy, thin and pale, with hair like ice, begging for money, begging for shelter, willing to sell himself for a night out of the cold.

He remembered bringing the boy home, smearing sandwich spread on stolen bread for him. Reading aloud from Perault, wrapping the boy in blankets by the fireplace. Calling the nameless child “Peter” after a rabbit in a long-faded picture book.

“Who cared for you after that?” the voice asked.

“No-one.” Anthony thought of his little beggar boy, of a waif willing to trust the first person to offer him shelter, to smile back.

“What happened to you then?”

* * * *

Anthony’s eyes fluttered open and he stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling of his leilghet.

There was nothing left anymore. He’d hocked the furniture, the books, the phonograph records, and his mother’s blue-flowered dishes.

He rolled off the mattress he slept on, wrapped in a tattered sheet, as his head felt as though it were cleaved open with headache.

Anthony stumbled to his feet, stepping over the mousetraps he set all over the pockmarked floor.

Wrenching the handle on the kitchen sink, Anthony waited as the pipes gurgled, shuddered, and finally spit out a thin drip of water like a trickle of saliva. He put his lips to the faucet and drank the tepid flow.

Opening the faulty icebox, he poked through a dozen bruised apples filched off a greengrocer nearly a fortnight before.

And the cabinets—more dust than food. Some stale crisps. Part of a sponge cake. A brick shoved in the back under a blanket of cobwebs, trying to be forgotten.

He pressed his hands to his temples, trying to stop the hammering in his head.

Someone was knocking insistently on his door.

“Open up! Are you there? Are you all right?”

Anthony started at the voice. “What does he want?” he mumbled, torn between rushing to the door and pretending not to be home.

“Saki! Come on, are you there?” There was a desperate edge to his voice.

Anthony threw open the leilghet door and glared at the space over the figure in the hallway. “Fuck it, what’s suddenly so important?”

Pochinko threw his arms around Anthony’s waist. “What did They do? Did They torture you?”

Anthony shoved him away and went back to banging through his kitchen cabinets. “Why would They torture me? You sound bloody mimsy.” Yesterday’s Ritual passed through his mind but he said nothing more.

Pochinko studied the leilghet with a furrowed brow. “You’ve changed it,” he stated finally, his voice dead.

“What the hell makes you think They tortured me?” Falling back into long-abandoned habit, Anthony forced an apple into Pochinko’s hands, and Pochinko, also out of forgotten habit, took a bite without protesting. “You probably haven’t thought of me in, oh, six months—--a whole year maybe—--but this morning you wake up and decide that I’ve been tortured. You know, because you haven’t seen me in a year and I could have been dead or something . . .” Anthony would still not look at Pochinko.

“Saki. Listen. They know.”

Anthony sniffed.

“About the List. That Jordie gave it to me back when They were tracking him.”

Anthony froze. He was afraid to answer.

There was a long silence, where Anthony stared into the shiny metal bottom of the sink. Pochinko rocked on his heels and prodded a mousetrap with the toe of his boot until it snapped and flipped over.

“Damn it, Saki. Look at me. You’re avoiding it. You won’t look at me—They’re after me, Saki. They know about the List. And . . . And you’re the only one I told.” Anthony didn’t answer. “And you can’t even look at me.”

Anthony whirled on him. “Maybe I don’t want to look at you!” he shouted, eyes burning. “Maybe I don’t want to know if you’ve changed. Maybe I don’t want to know what happened to you. It’s easier to pretend you’re dead, you know.”

Pochinko let go of the withered apple he’d been turning in his hands and it rolled across the floor, triggering mousetraps.

He had changed. He was still as pale, as thin, as drained as he had made himself before he’d left. But he seemed more raw somehow, less innocent, more jaded. The green-gray shadow of a bruise shaded one pallid cheekbone like an antithesis to rouge.

Anthony tried to focus on the List, on what Pocinko had come to tell him, but couldn’t. It was an accusation. He wanted to hate Pochinko for leaving, for being more sought after, and for not needing him anymore.

But he couldn’t.

“What have you been doing to yourself? Don’t tell me you’re going a pint a night still. I knew you’d wear yourself too thin. Where have you been sleeping? Have you been alone?”

He wanted to be able to look into those blue eyes and see the same blind trust and unwavering devotion to Anthony his saviour, to Anthony his protector—

It was gone.

Pochinko didn’t answer the questions. Waving them aside, he said, “I’m trying to tell you They want me. They want the List.”

“Who told you?” Anthony asked, feeling weak.

“One of the other Bloodsaints. You don’t know him.”

Anthony glared. “How do you know I don’t?”

“Aah, he’s a greasy, half-mimsy toff. Calls himself Droga Ago.” Pochinko shrugged. “He’s not important. I barely know him.”

“I don’t believe you.” The statement was cold and blunt, falling heavily through the space between them.

Neither one spoke.

“I’m sorry, Saki. Really.” A shadow of the old blue innocence flickered across his eyes and was gone. “Sometimes, I . . . it’s been a long time, Saki. What do you want to hear from me? Apologies? Explanations?”

Anthony sat back on the icebox lid, regarding his friend with narrowed eyes. “Whatever you’ll tell me. And don’t count on me to buy into it.”

“I had wanted to listen to you,” Pochinko began. “I wanted to stop, slow down, and follow your advice. But it was the money. It was the demand. I was a commodity, Saki—--I’m a commodity. I didn’t want to deal with your anger, I didn’t want to succumb to your concern, and your pain hurt me more than it hurt you. So I left. And found someone to take me in.”

“I’ve met Droga,” Anthony announced suddenly. “He’s a Mome.”

It was not a direct accusation.

Pochinko ignored him. “I hate doing it. I hate always being taken in.” He shook his head. “But I could only carry on so long after that. A pint, a pint and half a night. Sometimes two pints. You were right. I was bleeding myself to death. So I quit when a toff told me I was beautiful.”

Anthony choked. “You were his Tove?”

Pochinko shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Well, in the sense that he owned the house . . . Cert, I was his. For several months. It wasn’t important.” Anthony wanted to disagree. “Then I started selling again.” He paused. “You’re upset.”

“Yes.” The single syllable was so hard to say.

Pochinko crossed the leilghet to look out the grimy window at a pawnbroker’s across the street. “I just want to know if you told Them. I didn’t come for forgiveness. I’m not your prodigal son, you know.”

Anthony clenched one of his hands into a fist and unclenched it, pondering, studying his rough, worn fingers and palm, cracked and peeling.

“I want to know if They contacted you. Or if you contacted Them. You’re the only one I told.”

Anthony began to lie, but the truth tumbled out before he could stop it. “I had my Ritual yesterday--—but it was nothing. I didn’t tell Them about the List, or you . . . Why would I? It’s nothing to do with me anymore.”

Pochinko rested his forehead against the windowpanes. “Do you know for sure?”

Confused, Anthony admitted, “I don’t remember rot about it, really . . . I think I remember being shot with something, though.”

Pochinko turned and gave him a strange look. “Do you remember who else was there?”

Anthony scowled. “Well, if you’re talking about your Droga, he was there, cert.”

Pochinko nodded. “I know. And he remembers all of it.”

Anthony turned abruptly and shrugged into his jack. Shoving his fedora onto his head, he turned as if to leave the leilghet.

“Saki, where are you going?” Pochinko’s face brimmed with worry.

“Your Droga’s a Mome, isn’t he?” Anthony spat, sick at having to explain himself. “It was in the damn needle—--That’s why I don’t remember. But Droga’s probably worked up an immunity. So much shit in his veins, nothing’ll</i> work on him anymore.” He glowered in the doorway. “So I going to find him and ask him what They did yesterday. I going to ask him about this Ritual. My only question for you is . . . He’s got so much Bloodsaint in his veins—--just whose blood is it?”

Pochinko bit his lower lip, eyes welling up. Finally he whispered, “Mine.”

DRACO LETTER

Mon, 19 Sep 2005 02:35:49 GMT

Dear Harry,
Do you ever feel like I do? Do you ever feel forced into things you didn’t want to do by people you want to hate?

Have you ever hated your parents?
Have you ever felt torn in a million directions at once and wanted to die because of it? Because it hurt too much to try to sort out, it hurt too much to say “no” to them, because you were afraid to stand up against people more powerful than you . . .

You’ve never been afraid, have you? You have that damned Gryffindor courage, don’t you?

I don’t.

I wanted to make them stop trying to force me to join the Dark Lord. And it wasn’t because of any great epic ideals of Right and Wrong. It wasn’t because I wanted to side with Dumbledore.

Or side with you.

I was afraid of what would happen to me.

But I’ve watched you. I’ve watched you with your friends, I’ve watched be noble, I’ve watched you be honest, I’ve watched you flounder and fumble and blush and trip on your shoestrings and spill ink on your robes. I’ve watched you get angry. I’ve known about your godfather . . . I wanted to apologize. I wanted to apologize for my father.

But he’s gone too.
It’s just us now. It’s just us . . .

I tried to do something. You were the same resigned hero, the same epitome of Virtue. Out of years’ habit, I gave myself no choice but to become the opposite. After losing my father and your godfather on that same night, you became determined to be the hero, and I the whore.

I won’t lie. I won’t tell you that I didn’t enjoy parts of it. But I won’t tell you that I relished every second. I won’t tell you that I loved myself any more when I woke up with Nott, with Goldstein, with Davies, with some of my father’s friends . . . I won’t tell you that I laughed delightedly, that I smiled, that I was genuinely satisfied.

Because I wanted you.

I always had. I always wanted ~~to love~~ ~~to need~~ ~~wanted you to need me~~ wanted to share your certainty, your recklessness, your life.

And I wanted to break free.

Draco Malfoy

SAD COINCIDENCE

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 14:10:42 GMT

“Bill?” Lupin stood in the kitchen doorway, a puzzled frown on his face.

The young man looked up from The Prophet. His scars are looking better now, Lupin thought. Less devastating. “Yes, Remus? How did you sleep? I’m sorry Mum made you room with the twins; it’s a tight squeeze, I know, with everyone coming in for the wedding . . .”

Lupin waved that away. “Oh, I slept fine. I just wanted to ask you about last night. At The Hog’s Head.”

Bill winced. “Made a fool of myself, didn’t I? I had no reason to go off at Charlie like that. I just . . .” He shrugged. “I just felt he wasn’t understanding somehow. I don’t know why. I’ve never thought that before. I just . . . I just felt like chucking my mulled mead at his head, you know?”

Sitting down across from him, Lupin smiled slightly and replied, “Oh, I know the feeling. I felt like doing that to James more times than I can count.” He sighed. “To Sirius, too, come to that.”

Bill nodded. “See? That’s what I meant!”

Lupin gave him a questioning look. “Last night?”

“Yes!” Bill stared at him intently, as if willing Lupin to read his thoughts.

“I thought you were talking about something to do with werewolves. With both of us having had, er, brushes with them. Although God knows what that has to do with your impending marriage.”

Bill shook his head, remembering his exchange with Charlie the night before:

“Charlie, I don’t know if I really love Fleur, but she wants to marry me and I do like her, don’t I?”

“So you’re going to settle for the first thing that comes along?”

“No, I’m going to settle for the first thing that seems lasting and stable and normal. The world’s going through a rough time and it’s only going to get rougher, Charlie, and I don’t want to go through it alone. I want someone to be there for me, someone I can trust and depend on, someone who will trust and depend on me. Someone I might not love yet, but can see myself learning to . . .”

“If all you want is support, you get enough of that from Mum and Dad. Why do you have to get married to get more of it?”

“It’s . . . No, Charlie. It’s more complicated than you think.”

“Obviously.”

“God, you don’t get it. You don’t understand how I feel, do you? You don’t know where I’m coming from, but I’m sure Remus does! He knows exactly how I feel. He gets it!”

“Tonks,” Bill said, watching for Remus’s reaction.

Lupin returned Bill’s gaze with a confused, wary one of his own. “What about Tonks?”

“You’re with her for the same reason that I’m with Fleur, aren’t you? She loves you and Fleur loves me and it’s so easy to just go along with it and hold onto the person that loves you, especially when you don’t want to be alone. You didn’t want to be alone again, did you, Remus? You didn’t want to be left alone after Sirius . . .” Bill trailed off, looking at his hands. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was hardly a secret, Sirius and I. In fact, I’m sure everyone knows except maybe Ron.”

Bill chuckled. “Well, Ron is a bit slow to catch onto things sometimes. Like, well . . .” He shrugged, grinning. “I hear Harry had to seize Dean by the shirtfront and snog him senseless right in front of Ron before Ron even knew that Harry was . . .”

“Gay like his godfather?” Lupin smiled. “Or does he dabble with the occasional female, as I find myself doing, as of late?”

“Tonks is ‘the occasional female?’”

“One in a lifetime is occasional enough.” Lupin sighed, looking regretful. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t given in to her pleas. I knew I was only doing it because I was just as lonely as she was. And I hated seeing her miserable.”

“Well, we’re a fine pair, aren’t we? Getting involved with women for the same wrong reasons.” He grinned crookedly. “Of course, you know what the simplest solution would be?”

Lupin found himself smiling back. “What?”

“We’re both so lonely, we both need someone to depend on and confide in and give us a semblance of some sort of normal, love-filled life, right? Well, by all means, we ought to just forget about Fleur and Tonks and run off together. We’ll go rent ourselves a flat in Diagon Alley and we’ll cling to each other like shipwreck victims floating out at sea. We’ll have fantastic passion, we’ll have fantastic misadventures and fantastic long conversations late at night by the fireplace . . .” He shrugged. “Wish things were that easy, don’t you?”

Studying Bill, Lupin answered carefully, “I wish a lot of things were easy. What do you wish?”

“I wish that I could be in love with you. And I wish that I didn’t find the idea of being in love with you almost more within reach than truly, really being in love with Fleur.” He smiled palely. “But there’s no point in wishing for things to be easier, especially when it comes to love, is there?”

“No,” Lupin admitted. “As the Muggle song said, ‘Love hurts.’”

“Especially when you’re still in it . . . You’re still in love, aren’t you, Lupin?” Lupin nodded and Bill continued, “I thought so. I’m still in love, too.” The corners of his lips curved upward, pretending to smile, but his eyes were sad and apologetic. “But it’s a sad coincidence, isn’t it, that we should both still be in love with the same man?”

* * * * * *
The line from Casablanca is actually, "I know a good deal more about you than you suspect. I know, for instance, that you're in love with a woman. It is perhaps a strange circumstance that we both should be in love with the same woman." Said by the character of Victor Laszlo. God, I love that movie.

UNDER MY SKIN

Fri, 19 Aug 2005 05:38:51 GMT

The room was dark.

The room was always dark, as if he didn’t want Terry to be able to see where he really was. Anything could be hiding in those shadows . . .

“Professor Snape?”

“Don’t call me ‘Professor.’ I’m not a teacher anymore, am I? And you’re not a student.”

He nodded, wiped away a trail of black that trickled down his cheek, where his eyeliner ran with his tears. “Yes. Mister Snape.” He tried that cocky, wickedly sarcastic smile he’d been known for in school. “Lord and Master.”

“Shut up, Boot.”

“Yes, sir.” He took a deep breath. “What do you want from me?”

He sort of smirked in response. “What has anyone ever wanted from you, Boot?”

Terry sighed, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. “Sex.” He pushed his lank hair out of his face. It once gleamed, but now it seemed stringy and unwashed, with three inches of mouse brown showing above the electric blue, where he had neglected to dye it as it grew out.

“Exactly, Boot. You’ll never be good for anything else, will you? You’re a brilliant boy; I’ll admit that. But that doesn’t do you a bit of good. No matter how clever you are, you’ll always just be—”

“A whore,” Terry whispered. “Just a Knockturn Alley slut with nothing else going for him.” He shook his head and looked at his former teacher with something close to defiance. “But what if I didn’t have to be? What if I told you what I knew?”

Snape snorted. “You? What would you know?”

He bit his lip. Snape had seen right through him. He knew nothing. Nothing important. “Why would I tell you, anyway? I don’t need to win you over.”

“You need to win someone over sometime. They’re all against you, aren’t they? Where are your friends? Where are the people who were supposed to save you from yourself before it was too late? It’s too late now, Boot.”

He nodded mutely, unbuttoned his robes slowly and stepped out of them. They were his old school robes, the Ravenclaw crest ripped off and the edges torn and stained.

Snape coldly regarded the boy who stood before him, pale, naked, almost too thin, and shivering.

It was not something he would call beautiful. It was almost sickening, like a sacrificial victim, like some sort of martyr, all at once filthy and tragic, repellant and alluring. He was compelled all at once to throw Terry out, spitting his words back at him: “Whore! Slut!” And to seize him, press that slender, delicate body against his own, make him bleed, make him weep, make him moan.

And make him hate himself afterwards.

Snape didn’t want to make love to the boy: He wanted to destroy him. He wanted to fill him with self-loathing, make him think he was just worthless, scum, nothing. Filth.

They regarded each other warily, sizing each other up, trying to guess the other’s next move.

Snape moved first, quickly, pressing his mouth to Terry’s before the boy had a chance to speak. He didn’t kiss him. Kisses were gentle or passionate or sweet, but they were made for love. This was an act of devastation, and he devoured him, teeth scraping flesh and tongue pressing in to taste the blood the teeth had drawn. His fingernails dug deep into the bare skin of Terry’s back, but Terry didn’t resist.

He didn’t resist; his hands reached out to Snape, touching him with the practiced certainty of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and who had done it too many times before.

Who had no choice but to do it too many times to too many people he hated.

Snape pulled away, licked Terry’s blood from his own lips.

“Professor Snape?”

“Damnit, Boot. Go home.”

“Define ‘home.’”

Snape shot him an impatient glare. “The place where they welcome you in and let you sleep.”

Terry laughed hollowly. “I haven’t had one of those for as long as I remember.”

“Is that why you come here so often?”

A shrug. “Maybe. But you’re not the only person I could go to. I’m sure Finnigan would take me in if I asked . . . He’s decent like that. The fool.”

Snape was silent for a long time. “Then why come to me?”

He gave Snape another pale imitation of his old smile. “Maybe because I like this kinky violent shit. Maybe I’ve just got you under my skin. Maybe I . . .” He stepped closer. “Maybe I just have a thing for Slytherins. For Slytherin cruelty and Slytherin lies and Slytherin abuse and deceit.” His lips brushed over Snape’s and he whispered against his mouth, “Maybe I’ve got you under my skin . . .”

He kissed him gently.

“And I tried so not to give in.”

Art: SAKIPO

Fri, 05 Aug 2005 03:21:16 GMT

SLASHY/TRANSVESTITE DOODLES, mostly done in classes where I should have paid attention

Mon, 25 Jul 2005 01:29:16 GMT

POTIONS MASTER

Mon, 25 Jul 2005 01:24:24 GMT

SOME RANDOM ART (from my AP Art stuff)

Mon, 25 Jul 2005 01:20:58 GMT

STANLEY (the edited version!)

Sun, 10 Jul 2005 20:16:44 GMT

I am an English major
aspiring to be a
drag queen.

And after I
lose my looks
or a leg---
maybe from a
freak accident
when my stiletto heel
breaks
and I fall and
my femur snaps
like a stick
of sidewalk chalk---
I'll make bad
film noir
and not
apologize for it.

And it will star
kohl-eyed boys
in fedoras and
I'll go through
my book of
one-night-stands
for actors I can
dress like
Lillian Gish
and tie to burning
poles and capture
forever
in 16mm chiaroscuro.

THE SIXTH STREET ALL-NIGHT DINER

Sun, 10 Jul 2005 20:15:22 GMT

In the morning
I pour the orange juice
And fry the hash browns and
Eggs at the
Sixth Street All-Night Diner.

And in the afternoon,
I do the milkshakes and
Burgers and smile at the
LIttle old ladies who tell me
What a charming boy I am
And avoid the gaze of
The manager, who's twenty-three---
Six years older than me---
In his tight, ripped jeans and
Long hair that smells like grease.

And in the evening, I
Begin to put the meatloaf
In the oven,
As usual.
When the manager puts a hand
On my shoulder and takes me
Into the storeroom
With the cardboard boxes of
Napkins and extra salt-and-pepper
Shakers.
And he arches an eyebrow,
Turns on the naked lightbulb,
And reaches toward the zipper
Of those tight, ripped bluejeans.
Licks his lips, smirks at my
Stupid wide-eyed stare.
Parts the metal teeth like
They're opening to swallow me
Whole and
Not even care.
Undoes the single button
At the top
Eases the jeans down his
Hairy white thighs and
Tells me how pretty I am as
He peels away his plaid boxers.

I ask what he wants

He tells me not to be stupid,
Not to make him have to fire
Me, not after only three weeks
In the
Sixth Street All-Night Diner.