Entry tags:

lyric 7

Lyric 7 - Chapter II

Lyric 7

Author: Mushroom
Rating: PG-13 (Rating is subject to change)
Notes: There were only three people in mind while I wrote this chapter:
minnow_53, who inspires me,
caiphas, my childhood friend who loves these stories, and
Arvee, my wonderful guy friend who reads and supports despite the homoerotic content.





“why so many?”

“i do not understand.”

The little boy started swinging his legs. His knees were scratched and bruised, probably caused by climbing up tall trees and falling down from them. “why so many lovers?”

“why not?”

“mummy told me love is only for one person.”

“well, look where it got her.”

“…”

“what’s your favourite ice cream flavour?”

“choc-lit!” Typical boy.

“how’d it become your favourite?”

“uhm, because it’s the best!”

“you see, now. love is like that. there are several ice cream flavours. how will you discover the best if you don’t taste different kinds, at least?”

“ooh, but sometimes strawberry ice cream’s my favourite too. and i also love vuh-nilla. and sometimes i like choc-lit with strawberry and vuh-nilla. oh, and nuts and syrup and oh, lots of other ice creams…”




Chapter II – Rosemary Days


From whining wind and colder
Grey sea I wrap him warm
And touch his trembling fine-boned shoulder
And boyish arm.
- James Joyce




“Where are we going, Mister Kayne?”

Janne Killian laughed heartily as he followed an excited Daman along the quiet streets of his neighborhood. He held a tiny box with a hole in each side. Tiny, glinting eyes peered through each hole and observed the two men warily.

“We’re going to meet Missis Erzulie,” said Daman breathlessly. He tugged on Janne’s arm. “Come on, come on, COME ON!”

Daman Kayne had never felt such a joyous rush of anticipation before; he spent most of his time brooding at home while adhering to daily routines that bored him to death. But that day was an important day; the air was warm and pleasant, indicating a very amiable April, and the gardens of Anwar were alive with fresh, vibrant blooms. Daman thought that Missis Erzulie was probably feeling much better this season, after such a glum outlook last month, and it seemed like the best time to visit her with Janne.

Janne Killian—a few weeks ago the author wrapped his arms around him in the eyes of many disapproving individuals; yet he grinned for he delighted in their revolted glares. When Daman Kayne learned that Janne was aware of the shadow people, he liked him a hell lot more, almost bordering on something else that was quite unexpected but gladly accepted.

They were inseparable ever since.

They passed by a succession of oak trees and identical brick houses, talking and laughing and definitely having a good time. More people that time stepped out of their doors to greet the sunshine, and were very startled to see Daman Kayne skipping along the road with a strange-looking man in tow. His neighbors started whispering to themselves, conjured assumptions, and invented stories about the author’s newfound friend. He looks certainly weird, said the town gossip, and the others murmured in agreement. I think I’ve seen him one time, in the grocery store, whispered a young lady in pink, and that was years ago—why is he with Miss Kayne’s blasted cousin?

Damn men, cursed an indignant woman who was once infatuated with Daman Kayne. I hope they’re not bothering poor Ciara Lunnaire again. Today’s an important time for her, isn’t it? Damn men.

Daman expected the gasps of surprise, and couldn’t help but smirk when he heard them. He just discovered that Janne Killian was always the center of attention in all the places they visited—there was something in his grin, which was gentle and mischievous, and his hair…yellow and nearly golden against the sunlight. But of course, the artist attracted attention mostly because of his infamous highlights, and the ragged jeans and sweatshirts that outraged most decent folk. That morning Janne donned a purple sweatshirt and his usual patched pants. Gone were the streaks of red and black in his hair—he had replaced them with another peculiar combination, blue and green.

Even if his constant companion seemed like a lunatic to his conniving neighbors, Daman Kayne felt perfect. The man realized he had the power to not mind other people—their locked stares and whispers did not bother him one bit. His indifference to their appalled reactions most likely came from the fact that he enjoyed Janne’s company immensely, and cared less about what other people thought. He also believed that the blonde looked different, yes, but…fairly good-looking, and they were probably angry because they were envious.

(He couldn’t consider Janne beautiful just yet…but maybe some other time, when he has time to sit back and reflect on the matter.)


***


There she is, thought Daman happily as soon as he caught sight of the wood-nymph several steps away. He almost reached out to squeeze Janne’s right hand, but remembered, so he stood still with a flushed expression instead.

Janne stopped and gasped—he did not notice Daman’s attempt to satisfy his thirst for skin contact.

“Mister…Kayne. Is that…?”

“Yes.”

“She’s magnificent,” he whispered with barefaced awe.

Missis Erzulie was a live oak with lush, evergreen leaves, and held a lovely, gentle scent that instantly warmed the heart. Her branches were long, as if they wished to reach the clouds, and had a rich brown hue. She was part of a motte, a grove of red oak trees that were her lovers, yet there was something clearly distinct about her, in the way she carried herself.

Janne Killian continued to stare, speechless.

Daman nudged him teasingly. “Mister Killian…you’re supposed to move.”

Janne looked flabbergasted, but managed to speak. “What am I supposed to do?”

So he demonstrated. They walked a few paces closer to Missis Erzulie—she was leering down at them—and Daman patted Janne’s back, signalling him to kneel. The blonde collapsed on his knees, placed the box he had been holding for hours lightly on the ground, and opened the covers.

A white dove jumped out noisily, and glanced at Janne with large, terrified eyes. It seemed to relax, though, when the blonde gave it a warm smile. The bird surveyed its surroundings for a few seconds, then flapped its pale wings and flew upwards, heading straight towards the safety of Missis Erzulie’s arms. Daman and Janne watched the little dove smilingly as it lingered for a few moments, only to fly away into the infinite sky.

Janne made a sudden jerking motion, but Daman grabbed his arm. “You gonna fly?” he asked him gravely.

The artist gave him a weird look, but Daman looked serious. He shook his head.

“That’s good. It’s important that we keep the bird free.”

Janne asked what Missis Erzulie thought of him.

“Well, Missis Erzulie got what she wanted. I sense that she likes you a lot—not too much, or else she would’ve flirted with you by now, and it’s hard to break free from her spell. She’s very selfish—yes, you’re very selfish, Missis Erzulie.” He looked surprisingly relieved, and Janne eyed him curiously. “She grants you permission to stay with her today.”

Janne Killian’s eyes widened as Daman climbed up without difficulty, looking very much like an eager school-boy. Then he shook his head, laughed quietly, and followed.

Soon they were both perched on one of the wood-nymph’s large branches, munching on the butter cookies that Janne baked especially for that occasion. They could see the houses and the people in the neighbourhood, and they all seemed so tiny, so unimportant. It gave them a sense of satisfaction, as if they were blessed by the gods and granted great power.

“It’s nice up here,” said Daman, and Janne smiled in approval. “I get to see the houses from the other side. It’s been a long time—what? Years. I used to come up here after receiving a harsh scolding, and Ciara Lunnaire—she’s my cousin, if you recall—would scream at me to get down. It would get pretty noisy in here, and Missis Erzulie would throw a tantrum because Ciara Lunnaire would try to bring me down by tossing her shoe. But if I’m not involved in mischief, uhm, it’s very quiet and peaceful, and that’s when I talk to Missis Erzulie. She would tell me stories about her love life.”

Janne laughed. He always laughed, but each laugh sounded different yet wonderful and crazy in its own way. Janne’s laughs ranged from silly to angelic to sarcastic and embarrassing, and in other times Daman himself—being a man of words—couldn’t describe them.

“No, seriously,” chuckled Daman, “Love stories are so dull in television, but hers are just, uhm, terrific. Missis Erzulie’s a liberal woman, or so she says. She’d tell me tales about her escapades with important people. I know it’s hard to believe that oak trees can actually have adventures, but Missis Erzulie’s a wild tree. Ah, there was one…even though she’s like, married to three guys—three guys, can you believe it? Yeah, even if Missis Erzulie’s committed, she saw this maiden…well, wandering in the Zinnia meadows during an August moon festival, and then she called out and invited her to play with her. They both got drunk around 4 AM—she loves alcohol, that woman—and when Missis Erzulie looked at the maiden she thought her precious, even more valuable than the gemstones her husbands have hunted down for her. Missis Erzulie knows genuine beauty when she sees it. So, uhm, where was I? Oh, Missis Erzulie offered the maiden dozens of new dresses and chocolate marshmallows and swirly lollipops and loads of fancy things, just so that she’d stay with her. The maiden said she was okay with it, she hated the world anyway. Then she disappeared from the rest of the world. I think Missis Erzulie keeps her somewhere safe, so that her husbands wouldn’t find out. Am I right, madam?”

It was plain that Daman Kayne had been silent for too long. Hundreds to thousands of stories yearned to crawl out of his throat, eager to be freed from censorship. He spent years only listening and taking down notes, memorizing stories about different worlds and beings by heart. His true friends would educate him, give him advice, entertain him—and it hurt that he couldn’t share such profound knowledge to anyone else. Even Ciara Lunnaire, the only woman he ever loved, ignored his powers and dismissed them as foolishness.

Not anymore. Janne Killian existed. He knew things about the shadow people, and although not quite aware of the other worlds, he was very willing to learn. Daman Kayne would look at him fondly every single day, obviously very taken with the cheerful blonde man, and when he listened to Janne’s unique laughter his throat didn’t feel so itchy anymore.

Narrating Missis Erzulie’s love story, however, was going too far…at least that was what Daman thought. What the hell—I just mentioned that Missis Erzulie seduced a girl, he thought frantically. He grew red in the face and bowed his head, stuffing his mouth with cookies as an excuse to keep his mouth shut. The poor man was surprised, however, when Janne sighed happily.

“I hope the maiden’s very happy with Missis Erzulie,” said Janne in a whisper. Daman looked up only to find out that the other man was also blushing quite furiously. They were both apparently affected with the story. “That was a nice story. Missis Erzulie sure is something. How about you, Mister Kayne? Care to share your love story?”

Daman Kayne mumbled something about blasted females and shopping bags, until Janne poked him. “Ow! I’ve had girls, of course. I’m twenty-nine, it’s just natural.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’ve had about, I don’t know…six, no, ten girlfriends. They were never serious or anything. So now I’m single.”

The art teacher looked interested, even when it was obvious that Daman wanted to drop the whole subject. “You even count them, huh…you cruel man.”

Daman felt his manly pride bubble up. “Well, it just didn’t work out. I couldn’t relate to them anymore.” It was actually a mutual agreement, that the girls also couldn’t understand Daman Kayne, but he kept it to himself. The mystery that was pride emerged, and he wasn’t willing to break it down in front of Janne.

Janne Killian moved his head closer to Daman’s, whispering almost conspiratorially. “Have you kissed them?”

Daman jumped, then bobbed his head up and down furiously. “Of course! I had to. Girls expect those things after dates. Their lipstick tasted horrible, though, like cough syrup,” The author decided to play his game. “How about you, Mister Killian? Have you kissed any girl?”

The other man nodded truthfully, and Daman felt something twist in his stomach. “Yes. I've had affairs in all the places I’ve been to…heh, it’s a habit, to be honest. Girls are good distractions. Even so…I just can’t stay with one person—change is constant in my life, and usually the women who fancy me can’t keep up with my varying lifestyle. I dated many beautiful, funny girls, had a really fun time with them, but my happiness was short-lived. No offense to those girls, though. It’s just that…I think that…maybe girls are right to some, but not to me.

There was this certain girl that caught my interest, though, because she was such a bitch (excuse my swearing); she was new in the city I stayed in for a year, and was quite energetic. I forgot her name—hmmm, it was very unremarkable, anyway. The girl wanted to marry me, but she still had a boyfriend, so she sent back a letter to her hometown to break up with him. Poor man. I couldn’t marry her though, because I didn’t like her in the first place, especially with her awful attitude.”

Daman Kayne felt his pulse race. “Did she send him a birthday card?”

Janne nodded again, “Yes, she was such a nasty—oh hell, no.” he finally uttered upon seeing the look on Daman’s face.

“Hell no,” he repeated with wide eyes.

They both looked horrified.

“Are you mad?” asked Janne softly, bowing his head. There was something foreign—maybe fear—in his voice.

Daman Kayne gazed at Janne Killian, and loved everything he saw. For the first time he felt a connection to his ex-girlfriend of two years and realized her wants and needs, because he completely understood why she would fall for such a great man. He understood so well. He knew what she must have felt when she first laid eyes on Janne—most likely flustered and happy and warm.

“…We kissed the same girl,” Was the first thing that came to Daman Kayne’s mind, and it came out in words. “So, technically, it’s like, well, since I kissed her first, and she kissed you, then she’s like a messenger of sorts, you know, aaahh…”

And they laughed. Daman pushed his head back and crowed, slapping his knees, voice running out after a few seconds, while Janne laughed with hands on his face, desperately trying to cover the red patches that appeared temporarily.

When Daman and Janne calmed down, they both said “slut” with conviction, then started laughing again.


***


Wake-Robin Breen’s editor called up and asked how things were going. The distinguished fantasy writer affirmed they were working on it; they just needed more time, maybe four more months, because hey, they had lives to live. The editor sulked a bit but gave permission. As soon as he hung up, Daman Kayne was back in business.

The next night, Daman decided to walk the dog. Akia chased squirrels and barked joyfully while her owner and his friend trailed behind, cheering as she performed her stunts. Akia was dubbed The Wild Dog by the neighborhood because she was always seen running around town without a leash, executing daredevil stunts and whacking things over with her ecstatic tail. She had a black collar, one that was slightly loose, and every now and then she would take it off herself when she played with children. The adults hated her because she seemed too feral for a domesticated dog, even if she never hurt anybody. They thought Daman Kayne was too lenient.

The bright moon towered over Anwar, half-covered by dark clouds, yet the stars peeked through mist and glittered beautifully. The evening would have been very romantic, but it was ruined by the horrendous sound of Janne and Daman chewing hard candy simultaneously as they tried their best to reduce the jawbreaker into edible pieces.

“So, you’re saying that you were an investigative journalist before?” asked Daman Kayne after spitting out the candy in the garbage can. He had given up chewing, urged by the desire to hear Janne’s stories again.

“Yeah, but it only lasted for two years. I received warnings…death threats, though exciting at first, get pretty lame when they arrive in chorus.” Janne told Daman about becoming a chef in a lobster restaurant, a community service volunteer in other destitute villages, a singer at a famous bar in Flora (until he got kicked out because wives fell in love with him), a mechanist, a baker’s assistant, a salesperson, a professional who offered personal counseling services (he received marriage proposals instead), a preschool teacher, a vocalist in this music group named Cattle that disbanded after eleven months, and a gardener.

Daman whistled. “When you said that you like change, you really meant it.”

Janne’s eyes twinkled and his mouth curved upward. “However, I think I’ll be an art teacher for a long time. It’s more fun, actually. I really enjoy teaching and painting at the same time, and I get to practice the hobby my dad liked the most. Besides, it’s a peaceful job. Not that crazy, unless you count screaming students wreaking havoc all over the place.”

Daman Kayne was, in truth, a little jealous. He had only heard stories about places and people from piskies—while Janne had actual experience of diverse lives and locations. He only lived his life vicariously, and hid himself from the world by lazing about in his house. Compared to Janne Killian, he was boring. He looked at Akia and the trees and Ingvar, and wondered if he could survive without them.

The blonde man started combing his own hair with his fingers; Daman stared at the new shades of auburn that blended with gold. “Most of the things I have are only in passing. Even my loved ones die quickly. I like change, but sometimes it’s difficult to accept it when it happens. But you…” he smiled at Daman, “You were a pleasant surprise.”

Daman stopped in his tracks. “Really?” he asked. There was longing in his voice that he couldn’t hide.

Janne grinned at him, noticing the catch in his voice. “Really.”

“But I’m just a short-term thing, aren’t I?”

“Sorry?” said Janne, looking rather confused.

“ I mean,” Daman shoved his hands on his pockets and refused to look straight into Janne’s eyes—he was afraid to be reduced to stuttering again. “I’m just like…you know, one of your affairs—NOT that we’re having an affair right now, certainly not, I was pertaining to our, uhm, this thing between us, whatever it’s called—friendship. After discussing my seventh novel, which, by the way, still has no signs of progression, you’ll just go and do your own thing and leave me while I do…my own thing.”

Janne Killian folded his arms and frowned. “Hmmm. Well, it depends. Will you miss me if I were gone?”

“It’s your choice, you could go wherever you want, add another woman to your collection of Brief Relationships List, all I’m saying is that—“

“What are you saying?”

Daman paused.

“…Please stay.”

“Okay.”

One thing Daman Kayne liked about the art teacher was that he took things simply. He didn’t bother to ask any complicated questions that would make the situation discomforting, and did not push things forward too quickly. Daman liked what they currently had, a bond that was created through meaningful touches and coquetry, and was interested to see how things would fall into place. He never really believed in the idea of pursuance—because fate cannot be trapped and manipulated so easily—but he believed in development, whether gradual or hurried, and was patient enough to wait for change.


***


Wake-Robin Breen would usually entertain himself with the muses while writing his stories—and it was an effective way to concentrate, because his writings always ended up brilliant. Before, during, or after settling down to write, he would read unfamiliar fiction and poetry, listen to eccentric music, and visit unwanted museums. The environment was also an essential factor. He preferred writing the details down on a battered-looking notebook before encoding them in the computer, because computer screens gave him headaches and he was frequently distracted by the urge to beat his pinball high score. Hence, Daman would spend most of his time outside with his laptop, surrounded by cool air and foliage.

After several weeks of ‘applied research’ that included frolicking around in the sunshine with his trusted illustrator, Daman Kayne confirmed that he had a conscience, and that it was urging him to continue his seventh novel. He waited for Janne at the bus stop, and when he arrived they both walked together to the motte.

Daman beamed. Janne Killian was, in essence, a muse himself—he was even humming good-naturedly as they stopped to buy some snacks in a convenience store. He also noticed that the art teacher brought his materials with him, and his heart leaped at the chance to see him in action.

Tame blonde hair with colorful highlights. A shy yet confident smile. Everything Janne Killian had—his talents, character and appearance—opposed each other. He contradicted himself by being everything all at once, which seemed quite unfair to Daman Kayne, who wished he was just as versatile.

They decided to sit underneath the shade Missis Erzulie provided.

“You look tired,” remarked Daman. Janne looked at him with sleepy eyes.

“My students were quite rambunctious this morning. One of them pushed a boy out a window.”

“Yay. That must’ve been painful,”

“Yes, but the victim was laughing madly after the whole incident. The boy who pushed was the one who, ironically, started bawling. I spent four hours just trying to appease him.” The art teacher rubbed his neck. “Everything became so chaotic, with my other students making up their own stories about what really happened—that the boy sprouted wings and just flew out, among other things—then they blamed each other, so I completely lost it. In front of all those children. I blew up and hurled all the sketches they worked so hard for out the same window.”

“I thought that artists were the silent, broody types,” Daman pretended to shiver in terror. “Y-you’re scary, Mister Killian.”

Janne laughed abruptly. “The whole thing was quite ironic…they gave me doubled respect after my display of rage. One even said that I was his hero...he had never seen anyone with strength like mine before.”

Daman tapped his chin. “That’s probably because they finally realized that wow, our teacher is actually a human being, not just some detached perfectionist. Wow.”

“Very well said.”

“Thank you.”

Janne looked like he wanted to hold his hand, but he accidentally extended his right arm, which held a palm-grip woodcarver…and almost stabbed Daman’s liver in the process.

“Oh shoot—“ Janne drew his hand away quickly with a red face.

“Knew it,” taunted Daman to cover up his own blushing, “You’ve been longing to kill me and usurp my identity, haven’t you?”

“You bleed too easily,” said the other with similar wit.

Daman Kayne began working after a few minutes composed of friendly banter; Janne’s back pressed against his as he dug into his bag of materials. Before working on anything else, Daman reflected on the past few days and how they affected him, then wrote key words in his notebook. Motte, dove, golden retriever, moon, girlfriends, candy, heartbeat. He looked at the last word thoughtfully and crossed beat out. What could I write with these, thought Daman. The idea of a talking golden retriever with a million girlfriends was too silly, even if it was possible. And it did not comprise an excellent plot that would move children and make them dream.

He was distracted by a squirrel for a few minutes, and ended up writing jumbled lines. Clearly uninspired, he tore the page apart, and another page filled with doodles, and another. Janne was unperturbed by the noise, engrossed in the watercolour painting he was working on as an example for the next day’s exercise. There were thin lines on the blonde’s forehead, indicating that he was reflecting deeply.

“Can I borrow this for a while?” Daman pointed at the CD player after thirty minutes of failed attempts at keyword writing. Janne merely nodded. He placed the headphones on his ears and pressed the play button, willed himself to relax, until—

Loud and sensual club music boomed in his ears.

The author gave Janne a weird, shocked look, which was returned by a toothy grin. He was expecting classics, ballads, maybe even rock songs coated with angst, but dance? You sexy beast, thought Daman before he could stop himself—and promptly blushed, thankful that he did not say his thoughts aloud. The drumbeats echoed and his heartbeat went along; soon he succumbed to the melody’s charms and swayed his head with the music, drumming his fingers on his notebook quietly while his eyes were closed tight. The singer was a woman with a deep, velvety voice, and her song blended with the notes perfectly.

Boom boom boom…

He remembered a memory long forgotten. It was sudden—he trapped it in the pit of forbidden childhood memories, yet it came back because of the music. Daman Kayne was three years old, sick in bed and suffering from illness. He remembered the pain, how difficult it was for him to simply take in oxygen and provide his heart with nourishment. It seemed like something powerful was pressing against his chest, making him suffocate because it was just too heavy, too much of a burden.

He remembered flailing like a beaten puppy. Tears formed at the corners of his eyelids as he wailed helplessly, desperately trying to breathe. His frantic eyes looked at the window, then the door, yearning for escape, wishing to live…

Then he saw it. Am. The Am spirit looked like a tiny, fiery droplet with a blade on its tail. The spirit was lying on his chest, dozing quietly, and because of its nap Daman Kayne was about to die.

Boom boom boom…

Get out, get out, he remembered himself screaming, get out of me. But Am would not budge, trapped in the world between reality and dreaming. The force pushed against his chest again, and he screamed; wake up, wake up.

Singing.

Somebody was singing in the next room. It was a really wacky song, about love and its famous clichés, but the voice was so soothing that Daman managed to relax. The Am spirit moved a little, then slowly opened its little eyes, brought to the real world by wonderful music that went through the bare walls of his room. The spirit glanced at Daman, gave a little yawn, and dissipated into the evening air.

That was when he vowed that he would love Ciara Lunnaire, protect her and make her happy, not only for her healing voice, but also for her beautiful soul.

Daman inhaled the scent of evergreen oak, and smiled. It was a scary experience indeed, but it helped him appreciate every single thing, no matter how useless it seemed: like shadows, dust balls, and random singing.

Boom boom boom…

Suddenly Daman Kayne was struck by a brilliant idea. Bullfrogs were taken aside—it was a story that would not benefit anyone, and would be fine left untold. There were other things that mattered as of the moment, and they would constitute his seventh novel. He flipped his notebook open and started writing excitedly; keywords, phrases, names, characters…there would be a boy, with a pet dog, who was in love with a moon—no, a star would be better, and would risk a deadly voyage in space to see his beloved—

A gush of air swept through his left ear. He flinched, surprised at the sudden absence of catchy drumbeats. “Mister Killian, what’re you—“

To his disbelief, Janne’s lips were almost touching his ears. He could see it at the corner of his eyes; those pale, full lips, pert nose, and eyes hidden by dark eyelashes. Janne moved closer—there was his palm flat on the grass, and shoulders hunched forward. Daman could feel the other man’s breath touch his sensitive nape, hot and ticklish and soft, and the prose that followed broke his brain completely.

It sounded a lot like god, you’re so cute, I love you so much, Mister Kayne, but he wasn’t really sure. The memory of Ciara Lunnaire screaming silly and telling him that he was stupid was still fresh in his mind, along with the new protagonist he just created out of a song; and suddenly his mind cleared up, all excess thoughts washed away into the pristine stream of consciousness. It was time.

“What?” Daman did not look, but he could feel the gravity of the situation pull him down and weaken his knees. Still… “Sorry, the volume was too loud…” he pulled the earphones down and smirked. “Come again?”

Janne Killian looked positively abashed at that moment, all smooth manners gone. “I just thought that I sort of…kind of…you look c-cute when you’re determined, Mister Kayne.”

“So they say, so they say,” agreed Daman, setting down his notebook and pen as he faced Janne completely, teasing grey eyes diving into auburn. “But I remember hearing you say something else. Besides me being so cute. Could you please repeat it? Uhm, you know, I promise I’ll listen more attentively this time.”

Janne’s expression featured an array of different emotions—exasperation, shame, anger, joy, wanting. His lips trembled as he tried to speak, but no sounds came, only unintelligible words tumbling out and dissolving in the wind.

Daman stared at him. Patiently. They have been fooling around for two months; the casual touches and flirtations lost their appeal, and the purpose of their companionship lost its direction. Change was coming, coming quick…he could feel it in the minute twitch of his lips, the restlessness of his fingers, the throbbing in his groin.

It was silent. The whole grove was listening.

“I want you, Mister Kayne!” said Janne at last, trembling uncontrollably. Soon he was swiftly on his knees, his eyes giving off embarrassed, passionate sparks. “Do you want me?”

“You don’t know anything,” said Daman huskily, and found his hands full as they reached for the back of Janne’s neck, caressing it softly. “You don’t know how much I want you.” He could feel the Missis Erzulie’s influence grow strong in his heart; her gentle hands guided his as he pulled Janne closer to him. The touch on Janne’s cheek was kind—Daman had never been this gentle to his former girlfriends, who needed it—and his fingers slid down slowly on the other man’s neck, feeling the gentle rush of his pulse, then up again to press a thumb on his chin. It became exceptionally scorching; Daman inhaled suddenly, taking in air.


Janne’s hands touched the other man’s stomach and roamed upward to his chest, then his shoulders, while his unwavering gaze followed the trail. Daman noticed that the blonde looked determined, and would have burst out laughing if the situation wasn’t so serious, and if Janne Killian didn’t look so hot.

Star, thought Daman rapturously, and he finally closed the distance between them with a kiss. Hot, open, and demanding. Fingers gushed through hair spilled with blue-green poison. There was a moan. He could feel that nose, that lovely, perfect nose press on his cheek, warming it. Wet and sticky. Daman’s left hand held that warm face as the other wrapped round Janne’s back, exploring the skin underneath his paint-stained shirt. Another moan. Star. He took a risk and slipped his tongue in. It proved worthy—Janne purred and welcomed the invasion willingly.

Daman Kayne was a man of words, but there was absolutely no defining that first direct kiss.

Missis Erzulie watched with pride as her two friends kissed slowly at first, then becoming more desperate and needy as the seconds rolled by. Janne was lying flat on the ground, blonde hair bright amongst green grass, and his head moved left and right, trying to find the right angle as he nibbled the lip owned by the man above him.

And when Daman’s mouth reached his throat, with tongue, Janne let out a sharp cry.

it’s all going according to my wishes, Daman heard Missis Erzulie say as he kept himself busy pampering Janne’s skin, do you know how much i suffered to watch the tension grow between the both of you? It was not perfect, of course; there were fumbling and grunts and an awkward moment when Janne felt stubble against his chin, but once they relaxed and allowed their bodies to move freely, everything felt alright.

Janne’s shirt was completely unbuttoned at last, and Daman drew back to observe his chest rise up and down, in a speedy rhythm. He stared.

“Uhm, hi,” said Janne shyly, sounding quite like the time when they first met, fidgety and red but definitely flushed with pleasure.

“Breasts,” he finally said before kissing Janne again, hungrily searching for comfort between lips, tongue, and teeth.

“Hmmm?” Janne shivered, but his voice was layered with heat.

“I’m kissing someone without breasts,” he repeated hoarsely, “And goddamn, it feels so good.” and when the tip of his tongue touched the roof of Janne Killian’s mouth, everything went blank. Women were too soft and supple and fragile, but Janne was hard against his thigh, yet soft at all the right places. It drove Daman Kayne mad.

So he let go.

Janne whimpered, lips reaching for more, but Daman shook his head and embraced him, arms tight around a quivering body.

“Missis Erzulie’s doing,” he said simply. He just couldn’t believe that what he had wanted for so long was his—he suspected Missis Erzulie was merely helping him for all the good he had done to her since childhood, and chose Janne Killian’s body as a thank you gift.

“No,” Janne shook his head. And Daman Kayne looked up to see truthful eyes, and all doubt vanished. The wood-nymph helped open hearts, but she did not meddle. She merely watched.

They kissed again, slowly this time, and when they were done they pressed their foreheads together, trying to keep their breaths in sync, wondering how camaraderie vanished too easily, like the memory of a million girls.

Daman buttoned up Janne’s shirt, a task that proved so wearisome, and Janne placed his hands on his neck, keeping it there. Then they sat beside each other, backs resting on Missis Erzulie, hands threaded together in heavenly comfort.

“Daman!”

Daman stood up, startled. His beloved cousin stood in front of them, blocking the sunlight. He did not see the sparkling ring on her finger, or the happy flush on her face that immediately disappeared when she saw them both.

Ciara Lunnaire proceeded to look at them quietly, questioningly. Daman gathered his wits and ran towards her, a grin plastered across his face.

“Lune!” He exclaimed. “What’re you doing here?”

Ciara Lunnaire gave him a look that said that he should be feeling guilty, then frowned. “I knew you’d be here. I-I…something important came up, and I wanted to tell you the news.”

“Not as important as meeting my illustrator, maybe?” said Daman, totally oblivious to her icy glares. He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her forward. “Lune, this is Mister Janne Killian, official illustrator of the super-duper popular Wake-Robin Breen fantasy novels.” Ciara Lunnaire and Janne Killian both snorted.

The blonde man chuckled, then extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Miss Kayne.”

Ciara Lunnaire stared at his hand, then proceeded to absorb the rest of the art teacher with shock—there were the colourful clothes and the hair colour issue, which she found too weird for her tastes. Fixing a polite smile on her face, she took his hand. “Hello, Mister Killian. So I’ve heard you’ve been keeping my cousin occupied?” she had a sardonic tone in her voice which was only typical of her. Daman almost choked in his own spit, but Janne only laughed. “Oh yes, and he’s such a handful. Worse than my students, really.”

“May I ask what you were doing before I arrived?” Daman’s cousin asked with utmost courtesy.

The author looked at her helplessly. “We—“

“—were painting a picture,” said Janne gently. “A wonderful, breathtaking image of true love, only visible in the stillness of the grove.” He flipped his sketch pad open and revealed an amazing drawing of a dove perched on a lively oak tree. Daman gaped at him in disbelief and felt a sudden pang of guilt for messing around with his notebook a while ago.

Ciara Lunnaire nodded at him to indicate that she understood perfectly, then glanced at Missis Erzulie, who seemed to tower over the three figures. Daman’s breath hitched. She looked back at them again, with a more peaceful expression.

“Would you like to have supper with us, Mister Killian?” She lifted one of the paper bags she carried. “I bought some extra.”

“Oh yes, please!” said Janne almost too quickly, which made Daman Kayne snicker. Food was one of the artist’s topmost priorities; he constantly craved for it more than anything else.

“Good,” Ciara Lunnaire surveyed the blonde man again with a raised eyebrow, then walked ahead of them. The two men quickly gathered their belongings and ran after her, their nerves tingling.

Daman stole another chaste kiss, making Janne gasp, but Ciara Lunnaire proceeded to walk further ahead, nimble steps echoing on the asphalt. The shadow people emerged again, and this time the spirits that represented Daman and Janne seemed to be too close, too enamoured with each other.

Then the sparkle caught Daman Kayne’s eye.

“Lune…hell. You’re getting married.”

“Yes.” Heavy footsteps.

Janne clapped his hands once. “So that’s why. Congratulations, Miss—“

“—To that fat baldy,” retorted Daman flatly.

“That’s Mister Carlos Evoy for you.”

“You heard what I said. To that fat baldy.”

Ciara Lunnaire spun around, eyes brimming with tears. “Can’t you please be happy for me? Just for tonight? Please?!”

“No I can’t!” Daman Kayne shook his head, glowering at her. “He’s disgusting, Lune! And you know he is!”

Ciara Lunnaire clenched her fists in obvious frustration, then sighed. “I’ve always trusted your judgement, Daman. Please have faith in me, then. I know what I’m doing. Besides,” she looked at Janne Killian for a moment, then bit her lip. “Not now. We have a guest.”

They walked to the Kayne’s in uncomfortable silence; their shadows darted anxious looks at each other, wondering what was wrong with their companions. Ciara Lunnaire prepared a wonderful evening meal; sweet-smelling roasted chicken and Tapioca pudding were devoured by an exceptionally hungry Janne Killian (who said an appropriate thank you afterwards, of course). Ciara Lunnaire conversed with the art teacher graciously, yet there was sorrow and something like jealousy in her eyes when Janne mentioned something particularly strange. Meanwhile, Daman glared at the ring on his cousin’s left hand the whole evening—a silver band with a single, glimmering diamond, an emblem of commitment and captivity.