Entry tags:

lyric 7

Lyric 7

Author: Mushroom
Rating: PG-13
Notes:
Sky-divers – also called Asparas. They are known to seduce and wear out scientists and scholars to prevent them from going too deep into their investigations.
Old Cloots - the Devil.
(I only provide a definition of mystical terms if they aren't described in the story, by the way. :3 But if you want to know more info about these creatures, then look 'em up like I did! XD)

Now, I look back and think to myself: What the hell have I gotten myself into? This series is just too damn difficult to write! And the chapters grow longer and longer as the story progresses. But yes, I shall continue. Please pray that it'll all go smoothly 'till the end.
star_flare, I miss you!




Chapter III – Red Tulip Lips


Love came to us in time gone by
When one at twilight shyly played
And one in fear was standing nigh -- -
For Love at first is all afraid.

- James Joyce



It had been a long time since Daman Kayne dreamt about his stories; most of his night time fantasies included Janne Killian, clad in red and white, laughing hysterically at one of his jokes with long, slender fingers pressed softy against his lips.

That evening, however, Daman dreamt about a freckle-faced boy with a blood-stained scythe. The scythe was too long and large for him, but he carried it with ease, and there was nothing strange about it. The blade was thrice the size of his round head and it gleamed menacingly at the sharp edges. Blood dripped from the blade and touched the granite floor, creating puddles of thick black.

The boy was crying under the heavy rain; in his right hand was his weapon, while the other clutched a bouquet of drooping yellow sunflowers. A wolf suddenly came close to him and patted his shoulder, murmuring words of advice and comfort, while the boy howled towards the hidden moon.

He had lost his only love.

Daman's strange dream was only momentary; there was a noisy tapping on his bedroom window which startled him—he thought a nightmare decided to pay him a visit. Pissed, confused, and wondering why the spirit never bothered with the door bell, he scratched his belly (Where’s my shirt?), pushed the windows open, and blinked at the mist and darkness.

A pair of yellow eyes gazed back at him in fright.

He sighed exasperatedly, then gave a sleepy smile. “hey curupira. haven’t seen you in years…where have you been? you’ve missed a lot of things...i’m popular now. or at least, wake-robin breen is. anyways, good timing though, because i wanted to ask you something about rocket ships and how they work…”

“w-who’s he?” asked the trembling voice. The eyes nervously glanced at the sleeping figure huddled in the sheets, and he muffled a shriek of pure terror.

“uh,” Daman found himself blushing before he could stop himself. “t-that’s a friend of mine. don’t worry, he won’t hurt you. and he’s fast asleep. he won’t be here for long…he’s just staying for the night. why don’t you come in? mister fog looks happy tonight.”

An adorable young boy with blood-red hair and rough, yellow skin climbed in, his face colourless and pained. His pink-feathered hat—probably a gift from a wood-nymph—glimmered in the dark, an obvious contrast to the dark green clothing he usually wore. Daman kindly wrapped Curupira with a jacket and led him to a comfy striped armchair, where the boy sat and sank, looking deflated as he gave out a sigh of sheer frustration.

“hot chocolate?” offered Daman.

Curupira shook his head. “i’d like a face towel, though.” Daman moved across the room to his cabinet and searched, then handed him his request. The boy looked at the grey face towel with longing, then placed it between his orange lips. The chattering of his teeth immediately stopped.

“thanks, towels are the yummiest. i was afraid i might bite my tongue off. you never know.”

“you’ve been gone for so long,” said Daman, almost in a whine. Colt-pixy, a rather mischievous faery, informed him years ago that Curupira drowned in his neighbour’s swimming pool. Young Daman, ever the impulsive boy, shucked off his shoes and dove straight into the waters, thus ruining his formal coat and tie reserved for a special occasion—Ciara Lunnaire’s eighteenth birthday party. He came back home dripping wet, and was prohibited from eating any cake. The cake had chocolate filling, which was his favourite, so he griped terribly, buried his cousin’s birthday presents in their backyard, and refused to give them a proper funeral—they were found easily though, because he marked the spot with a pot of guilt flowers.

“your fault. you drank all those nasty stuff.” said the boy, referring to Daman’s prescriptions and regular check-ups.

“what was i supposed to do? the doctors required them. ”

“then send in the sky-divers to distract them for a while,” said Curupira, “tch. so arrogant, them. no common sense at all. they’re sick in the head.”

Daman sat on the floor and faced him. “okay, about the rocket ships from earth, how do they ascend with only exhaust gas—“

“rocket ships? what for, if you have kites? listen, i don’t have time to stay long,” said the boy miserably. He rubbed his yellow hands, and they instantly turned crimson, a shade lighter than his hair. “it’s hunting season—i have a job to do. fucking villagers, almost more than half of the elks and foxes in my kingdom are gone now, and they piss on the trees, assholes. they call it a sport, and they come in bunches, so i’m having a hard time confusing them.” Curupira began shivering again; beneath those angry words was a scared child with a complicated task. Hot and angry tears fell, and he wiped them off with the face towel.

“i tried to protest, curupira,” said Daman quietly, “but they said that i was damaging the historical and cultural essence of the—“

“anyway, that’s not what i came here for. i came to warn you, young avatar,” said Curupira gravely. He looked dead serious. “an uprising is in the works—i’ve been hearing reports from the pharisees. they plan to attack, even some of the totems who’re mostly kind to you lot. there’ll be a bloodbath, methinks. the pharisees desire to unite everything in this world, to make a single, permanent reality. and the reality they wish is one where you lot are dead.”

Daman Kayne looked at his palms and was surprised to find that they were calm. “i know that. i don’t blame them, either.”

“your world is finished,” said little Curupira urgently, “and there’s nothing we can do. the pharisees are angry. they want to hear screams.”

“what do you want me to do?”

“don’t turn into one of them. maybe…just maybe…you’ll be spared.”

“i’m writing a book about you guys.”

“good. keep it up. you’ve been mentioned a lot in court recently. you smell good to them higher folk. just write and write and avoid the other bastards—preparation will take a long time. and oh, and don’t take in those little round thingys, medicine, anymore. it’ll make you sensible…and weak.” The little boy dropped the face towel and stood up, eyes closed.

“i have to go,” he finally said.

Daman Kayne gave the face towel to Curupira, who accepted it gratefully.

“good night, young avatar. good night to you too, obi.”

“don’t worry, curupira. i hid the pills from my cousin. obi says thanks, and don’t die. you take care, okay?”

The little boy nodded, red hair dancing with the wind, and Daman mentally panicked a bit because it seemed like it was on fire. He watched sadly as Curupira discreetly climbed out the window and disappeared into the evening air with one resounding pop, after giving him a loaded grin that remained in his mind for weeks.

A permanent reality.

Daman stood staring at the yellow moon for a few minutes, then remembered he was supposed to be asleep. Janne Killian was already snoozing on his bed, blue-green hair dishevelled and colourful shirt rumpled. Ciara Lunnaire insisted that he sleep over; they drank a bit of alcohol during dinner and were feeling quite light-headed and drowsy. So Daman offered his own bed because the guest room was being used for storage space, pulled out a mattress from the once-untouched cabinets, and slept on the floor next to his beloved. Obi was, at first, wary of the stranger invading his friend’s bed, but when it heard the fond words the two men exchanged it rolled back to his corner and slept in peace.

His beloved. They kissed goodnight before they snuggled under the covers, just seconds before Ciara Lunnaire opened the door to check on them like a probing mother.

Janne plunged headfirst towards the bed and slept like a rock, while Daman savoured the cool air before entering the realm of dreaming. He usually dreamed about his next project, and he wanted to start forming ideas early.

Meanwhile, Ciara Lunnaire stood by the door, watching them carefully for almost thirty minutes. Daman could feel her soft but piercing gaze on his back, could hear the rushed air that entered and left her lungs. The author’s senses would heighten in the presence of his cousin; he could sense her pain, her uneasiness. She probably realized that Daman was not about to do anything remotely unacceptable, and closed the door quietly.

That night, Daman listened to Janne’s breathing—soft, slow, untroubled—before he dreamt. He received a number of ideas throughout the night, and lost consciousness with a meaningful grin.


***


Janne Killian ate breakfast with the Kaynes the next morning; he did not even bother to pretend that he wasn’t hungry, as other considerate visitors would have done. Ciara Lunnaire served buttered toast, fried bacon and poached eggs, sausages, tomato slices, and coffee with milk—she predicted that Janne would eat them all, and she was right. Daman smiled affectionately as the art teacher smeared jam on his sixth toast in glee, while Ciara Lunnaire gave him suspicious glares as she sipped on her mug.

“Is this the first time you’ve eaten breakfast, Mister Killian?” Daman couldn’t help himself. He smirked.

Janne gobbled up a sausage, and they had to wait for him to finish chewing before he could answer back. “Uhm, yeah, sorry. It’s just that—Miss Kayne is a terrific cook.” Ciara Lunnaire stopped glaring quickly and gave Janne an edgy smile with a hint of surprise.

“Yeah, lots of people say that she’ll make a good wife. Not for that fat baldy, though.” said Daman, and although he sounded mean, his face was gentler than the day before.

Janne forked three bacon strips and popped them in his mouth, and Daman hastily gave him his coffee. “Hey, easy. Why are you in a hurry?”

“Oh, please excuse me, but I still have a class to teach at…” he glanced at the wall clock behind him, “…eleven-thirty. We’ll be practicing calligraphy today, and it’s hard work. It’s going to take a really long time, so...” He bowed his head, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then slowly stood up. “I…I…loved my stay here. Miss Kayne…” he glanced at Daman’s cousin, who started, “…you are truly a beautiful woman who cooks so well. I’m very grateful that you invited me here to stay for a night. I wish you luck with your…your future endeavours.”

“Don’t speak as if you won’t meet each other again,” said Daman, “You can sleep over again, right Lune?”

Ciara Lunnaire nodded with a red face—she was clearly stopping herself from saying something.

“Thank you. Feel free to ban me forever if I finish up all your food,” laughed Janne gently. “And uhm…Mister Kayne. Thank you for letting me borrow your bed. It was…fragrant. I mean—warm. I mean…” the atmosphere became quite steamy, and they felt Ciara Lunnaire’s eyes stab into their skin again, so Janne cleared his throat with an incriminating blush on his cheeks. “Uhm…I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Mister Kayne,” he hastily turned towards the door when Daman left his seat and grabbed his arm in an instant.

“What’re you talking about? I’m going with you.” Janne opened his mouth to protest, but Daman shook his head with a grin. “I want to see your place, since you’ve seen mine. To be fair.”

Ciara Lunnaire’s eyebrows almost reached her hairline in a flash, while Janne Killian’s face fell. “Oh, I don’t know, Mister Kayne…m-my place…it’s…it’s really terrible, and it stinks a lot because some of my students refuse to take showers in the morning—“

“Oh, I’m sure that I’ll survive if I’m with you the whole time,” said Daman slyly. Janne Killian smelled like sweet cinnamon and breakfast, so he silently decided to stay by his side the whole day. He glanced at Ciara Lunnaire, who remained quiet. “So. I’ll be heading off to Janne’s place. Where will you be the whole day?”

“I’m meeting Mister Evoy in the café downtown,” she whispered.

Daman snorted. “As usual. Just don’t bring him here or anything. I don’t want to see that pig around...he defiles the spiritual presence that guards our house.” His cousin glared at him again, but said nothing. Daman Kayne sniffed.

Carlos Evoy, a large, beefy man who grabbed attention because of his shiny golden molars, had been pursuing Ciara Lunnaire since she was fifteen, even if he was married and had three children—not counting the offspring that surfaced from his flings and one-night-stands. Daman’s cousin was a spunky brunette with large grey eyes and the sexiest waist according to eighty percent of the entire male population of Anwar (in addition to the entire population of piskies and brownies). Everybody liked her, for she was the exact opposite of Daman Kayne; she was sensible, firm, and responsible, not to mention hauntingly beautiful.

Daman suspected that she probably discovered The Brook of Dancing Water behind the cluster of oak trees next door before she turned thirteen. During her pre-adolescent years, she had a square jaw and a body that resembled a twig—Daman often made fun of her and she would throw rocks at him. It was impossible to become a real beauty overnight. Ciara Lunnaire must have bathed in the magical brook under a grinning moon and transformed into a pretty lady the next day, thought Daman knowingly. His aunt and uncle told him that her sudden growth spurt and beauty were the hormones’ doing, but he merely snorted.

Hormones, scoffed Daman Kayne. Like they were powerful enough to make miracles.

Unluckily for Ciara Lunnaire, she caught Carlos Evoy’s eye right after the day she matured and gained the curves of a stunning bombshell. And he always got what he wanted.

Ciara Lunnaire looked for a job after her parents passed away, so Carlos Evoy hired her in his firm immediately. Since then, the neighbours believed that Ciara Lunnaire did all the work while Daman lavishly spent her hard-earned money on medication and dates; they did not know that he was Wake-Robin Breen, yet Daman did not intend to inform them of his famous alter-ego—he disliked unwanted attention, especially from people who never cared.

Ciara Lunnaire agreed to marry that fat baldy, thought Daman angrily. He imagined her bearing Evoy’s children, and in his mind they all had Ciara Lunnaire’s curves and the pig’s golden teeth. Daman felt the instant urge to vomit.

He understood why, of course. Carlos Evoy had money and connections. His cousin always dreamed to have successful, rich children, and the man was very influential and blatantly obsessed with her (The drooling pig never even bothered to cover up his lust). He would follow her every word, if only granted the privilege to see her naked body, and to check if the tiny waist was worth all the attention.

She was really practical.

Daman Kayne gave Ciara Lunnaire a light kiss on the forehead and left food for the home spirit on his window sill before following Janne to his home. The memory of Curupira’s warning filled his mind, and he hoped for her salvation.


***


Janne Killian’s home was small and hidden by large beeches and untamed shrubs. But that wasn’t the problem—it was only logical, since he lived alone. Daman found himself gaping at the house, however; it looked like it was about to explode any moment.

There were about eight to ten shelves and boxes cramped in each room—there were red ones in the kitchen, black and brown in the dining room, tall and skinny shelves in the den, and bright-coloured boxes without flaps in his bedroom. The shelves featured all the souvenirs and trinkets Janne Killian collected in his trips beyond the comfort of Anwar; there were phials of sweet-smelling, sometimes nauseating perfume, various wall clocks and tapestries in all shapes and colours, gemmed brooches, gaudy buttons, fridge magnets, ceramic utensils, bottles of exquisite wine, and dozens of polished wooden chests. The living room was stacked with dusty books and papers, which Janne explained to be a semi-library. The mantelpiece in the dining room had recipes cut from grocery items, while stylish knives, daggers and swords hung on the wall, protected by their sheaths. Janne was particularly proud of his bedroom; colourful post-its with messy scribbles covered the walls, some even the ceiling, and the headboard of his bed was painted a bright orange with a daisy pattern. His work desk featured an assortment of photographs and letters strewn carelessly, while a dazzling array of medals, trophies, and music boxes stood on a low table next to his bed.

A music box caught Daman’s painful eye, even if he had a grueling headache from the visual attacks. The box was tiny and heart-shaped, not as remarkable as the golden boxes that surrounded it, but definitely beautiful. He opened it gently; sweet music filled the room and reminded him of his childhood, when fair ladies would play in the gardens and sing at the top of their voices as the flowers opened to greet them.

The gardens aren’t there anymore, he remembered. They've been replaced by drive-in theatres and food stands.

“Uhm, just uhm, place your stuff…here.” Janne kicked a box occupied by dried paintbrushes to make room for Daman’s suitcase. “And I’m, uhm, really sorry.” He plopped down on a box and flushed. The art teacher looked positively cute while doing so.

“Don’t be,” said Daman. He placed the music box back on the table and walked towards him with outstretched arms. Janne sighed and fell into his embrace. Daman kissed Janne’s forehead very softly while his eyes scanned the medals, and gave a low whistle at last.

“You’re such a pack rat,” said Daman. He felt Janne smile against his chest.

“I like being all cluttered up—it makes me feel safe. Well, there was a time when every single thing was in its proper place, until I grew sick of it and messed everything up. All the boxes and cabinets had labels on them before. Silly labels, like ‘calendars inside’, or ‘toothbrushes’. I couldn’t give them up. They held so much meaning.”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s, uhm, trying hard to put meaning in them, that you lose track of the point altogether.” said Daman.

“Well,” Janne looked at him thoughtfully, “They helped me a lot during chaotic situations. I think it’s too cruel to just throw them away. And what if I need them again? Sure, I may move on and forget about my collection of toothbrushes, but what if I'll be seized by the sudden urge to use them? My heart wouldn’t stop aching and missing their colourful handles, and it will hurt so much because I threw them away carelessly—“

Daman silenced him with a kiss. It was more hungry and sensual than the first, and the air was hot inside the crowded room so they were drenched with sweat in just seconds.

When their lips parted, Daman rubbed his nose on Janne’s and whispered Hi.

Hello, answered Janne’s Beyond Normal Nose, rubbing back. A thread of saliva hung between their lips, and their faces went beet red as they licked their lips and avoided each other's stares.

Daman’s eyes roamed the room and he exhaled. “Geez, this place is such a dump. Don’t we pay you enough for your contributions in my best-selling novels?”

A girly shriek from downstairs gave them a start, so Janne hurriedly grabbed his books and suitcase and grabbed Daman’s hand before they headed off to the garage. Daman heard a clumsy laugh from the other side of the room, and knew that a bogie probably spied them kissing. He felt his cheeks burn. This would benefit Missis Erzulie greatly; she liked to keep in touch with her subjects of amusement, but Daman couldn’t stand her constant teasing.

There was a large wooden mirror at the end of the hallway, the only place hidden in shadow, but the sight vanished as they made an abrupt turn.


***


Art classes took place inside Janne Killian’s musky garage, which was larger than all the rooms combined. A huge banner hung by the entrance; it said School of the Muses, and featured a weird-looking painting of a knotty heptagon. Paintings of faces, sunsets, mountains and other beautiful things decorated the walls to cover the peeling wallpaper, which Janne Killian referred to as the ‘Soul of the World’. A box full of art equipment was situated in the center of the classroom, and more than a dozen long tables and chairs surrounded it. There was a black board on one side of the room, which was also shedding its colour, and the ledge had a saucer topped with damp chalk.

“What—oh dear,” Janne called the attention of a smirking boy and a red-faced girl, the only students who came early, and pointed at the chalk swimming in water. “What happened to this?”

The girl explained that the boy was demonstrating the movement of a boat on the sea waves. Janne frowned reproachfully but Daman felt that he could relate with the mischievous little bugger, so he smiled at the boy.

“Don’t reward bad behaviour,” whispered Janne disapprovingly as soon as the two children were out of earshot; he gave them the lesson ahead of time since the others were late. Daman grinned at him.

“What? He looks like a fun kid.”

“Mister Kayne, he drowned the chalk, now I couldn’t possibly write on the blackboard.”

“You’ll think of something,” said Daman airily, then he pointed at the banner above their heads. “Hey. What’s that?”




Janne told him that the heptagon contained something within it, between all the connected lines. “Everyone has a blessing within him or her. Talents are contained and cherished here in the School of the Muses.”

“And love,”

“W-What?” said Janne quickly, almost dropping the saucer he was holding. His face was a bright red as he gazed deeply into Daman’s eyes, trying to interpret his words.

“It is, uhm, the love we hold inside,” said Daman with a red streak across his nose, remembering the stories he had learned and unlearned, “and nurture, for another person. Nice logo, by the way, but, uhm, it’s such a shame that such a large amount of talent and love are left to rot inside it...you must at least provide an opening somewhere.”

Janne laughed merrily, getting it at last. “I’ll edit the picture then, just for you.”

“You love me so much,” said Daman, visibly flattered, and they made a move to kiss each other again when the two kids tugged their pants and showed their finished work with impatient noises. Janne gave the girl a few pointers while the boy stared at Daman with total understanding of their situation. Daman felt something heavy in his chest, and would’ve bolted out the door in embarrassment if the other students did not enter the room at that exact moment. There was no escape.

Janne Killian introduced him to the students as Wake-Robin Breen, who was ‘kind enough to see how they were faring’, and the students all gasped excitedly and looked at the author with anticipation and fervour, as if they expected his characters to march in the door and introduce themselves along with him. Wake-Robin Breen exuded a mysterious and depressing aura that captured all the girls' hearts in an instant.

“Oh my god, I love the Thornapple twins, I mean they’re so similar and identical and alike and uhmm…equal yet they’re really very different from each other,” gushed a twelve-year-old girl with large spectacles, obviously trying to impress Wake-Robin Breen with her knowledge of the thesaurus.

“Yeah, I like them because they’re so devious—they managed to trick Old Cloots into thinking that it was daytime already. You write them so well,” commented a boy with spiked hair.

“That’s because they’re just like me,” revealed Wake-Robin Breen with a deep voice, “only younger and uhm, there’s two of them.”

“But are they really twins? Because it says in page sixty-four, in the third paragraph, that Clover Thornapple only stepped out from a puddle—“

“—That was just a joke from the ghoul, you stupid girl—“

“—I love the talking pony in Rose Lady’s Dog-Cat, I mean Lady Rose’s Cat-Dog, I mean Rose Lady’s fuckingshitshitSHITInevergetitright—“

“Okay, okay, slow down with the question and answer portion!” said Janne, laughing good-naturedly at their frenzied babbling. “He’s going to answer all your questions, just as I promised, but you have to organize your thoughts first.”

Wake-Robin Breen pulled a chair, sat down, and began to tell stories to the young teenagers with an animated voice. He also answered their inquiries about his books, and explained the characters in detail. For two hours he cracked jokes and gave them his insights on The Aster Fields novel, while Janne Killian sat behind him with full support; the light weight of Janne’s palm pressed on Daman’s shoulder, and squeezed. Wake-Robin Breen would glance back at him and grin quietly, and the students would stare for a moment, then start raising their hands frantically once more to be granted answers to all the mind-boggling puzzles found in his novels.

The art teacher was surprised to see that Wake-Robin understood the kids, and told him so, in which Wake-Robin answered with a confused look.

“Of course I do. Kids make the most sense.”

Once he uttered those lines, the little, ribboned girls in the classroom were positive that they were head over heels in love with the enigmatic, dark-haired fantasy author. They were also sure that they were in love with Janne Killian, their cheerful instructor, but since Wake-Robin Breen was new they all sighed happily and gazed adoringly into his clear eyes.

Soon the interview was over, and they had to work on their new topic. Wake-Robin Breen observed all the works of art in the Soul of the World as the class busied themselves with their sketch books. He occasionally asked questions to some of the students regarding the drawings on the classroom wall.

One painting was prominent, and it said I love Wake-Robin Breen. The scribble was a bit tiny, but Daman Kayne had the power to notice things, no matter how insignificant, if it involved himself and his counterpart. Ciara Lunnaire prescribed vanity as the problem, which was just so typically evil of her.

“Mind if I ask who wrote this?” asked the author, pointing at the controversial painting. The mischievous boy earlier quickly looked up from his paper, then snickered. “Hahahah, the girl with the pigtails wrote that,” he said, pointing at the girl with aforementioned blue-ribboned pigtails. Before she could protest, he already said, “She’s obsessed with you, poor woman. Heck, she keeps on ranting on and on about how awesome your stories are, as if we don’t know it in the first place. She’s obsessed to the point of giving up her virginity for you.”

The class roared, Janne Killian included (though he tried to muffle his laughter to keep his respectable appearance). The girl looked mortified and struggled to protect her dignity, but Wake-Robin Breen gave her a gentle smile. “I’m very honoured to have my name on your painting. Can I see your other works?”

They sat side by side as the little girl showed her a notebook with drawings of floating shapes, spirals, and flower beds. Wake-Robin Breen commented very nicely, and wrote his name on each page by her request, which enraged the other girls in the class (they started grunting and acting all un-girly-like by flexing their muscles while imagining the pigtailed girl's head was their pencil, so they gripped said writing instrument roughly). “I’m sorry to disappoint you, though,” said Wake-Robin wistfully, after he was done going through them. “But I don’t really like girls that way.”

“I understand,” said the girl, desperately trying to recover from the sudden heartbreak. The other girls started swooning. “Of course you wouldn’t like little girls…”

“He’s interested in women, you dork,” retorted the mischievous boy. “You’re not a woman yet.”

“But I will be,” insisted the girl. “A few years from now!”

“Little girls and all kinds of girls, actually,” said Daman, and he glanced at Janne. The teacher pretended not to have heard by fixing the files on his desk for seven consecutive times. Daman drank his image deeply; there were those chestnut highlights, perfect for the summer glare, and eyelashes gently fluttering close. Janne Killian looked much better now, nourished by Ciara Lunnaire’s excellent cooking, and he wore a shirt that was not properly buttoned, thus giving Daman’s eyes access to his delectable jugular. He knew that Janne Killian was fully aware of his staring, but the blonde continued to tease him by bending lower, exposing more skin (the author therefore did not notice that he just broke approximately fourteen hearts owned by little girls with fantasies that involved him and a marriage certificate).

Daman Kayne found himself licking his lips, moistening it, hungry for contact. There was that crying little boy at the back of his head again, whispering Star, Star, Star, and he knew how to console him. Through satisfaction.

After class, he reminded himself, and clenched his fists rather painfully.

The mischievous boy stayed behind even after class was over, when all the girls received the necessary hugs and kisses from Wake-Robin Breen--Daman was surprised to find them weeping and rubbing their noses on their blouses as they filed out the classroom. He looked back just in time to see the boy handing a brown envelope to his teacher. Janne surprisingly bowed low in respect, hands trembling, face expressing pain.

“What’s your name?” asked Daman, when he finally realized that a bright light enveloped the boy like a cloud of mist. An indefinite shape hovered behind him. The guardian had chosen.

“Gilmour,” answered the boy.

“You’re my editor’s son. And the guy who supposedly fell out the window...” Daman eyed the white mist silently. "...and survived."

“Yup,” said the boy. “Dad was right. You are young. And unmarried.” He stressed the last word with a mocking eyebrow.

“What’s the deal with my single state, anyway?” chuckled Daman, and Gilmour said his goodbye and left, the white mist disappearing gradually as the rays of the sun touched its splendour.

Janne Killian was still staring at the envelope, his face a mixture of relief and sadness, and Daman Kayne took advantage by pulling it out and checking the contents. Janne’s mouth opened but no voice came out, his eyes widened in shock, so Daman placed the envelope and cash on the table, then filled the spaces between Janne’s fingers with his.

“So that’s why…” said Daman, and he buried his face on the other man’s neck. “That’s why…you’re always hungry.”

They stood still in each other’s arms until the chalk in the saucer dissolved completely.

Somehow, he knew from the start. “Have you always been like this? Also…with your other jobs…”

“My employers were very generous. They would treat me to lunch, and sometimes give donations—“

“But of course you would decline.”

“The money I don’t need. Food is heaven for me,” said Janne with a charming smile, and laughed. “Obviously.”

Daman Kayne gazed at Janne Killian in silence, the blonde whom he had grown to love in the span of a few months...and even if he did not know many things about him--for example, why he made his own life so difficult and how he managed to survive with just (the taller man shuddered at this) donations--he was willing to let things fall in place, to allow Janne Killian to tell him why and how when he felt like it. There was no need to rush things. They had the rest of their lives to think of the right words to say.

“You’re weird,” said Daman Kayne at last, and they went up to Janne’s room to survey the mess and continue their lip-locking. Daman then decided, as Janne nibbled the portion between his neck and shoulders, that he would cook dinner tonight, and the next night, and in all the wonderful nights he shall spend with Janne.

And he’ll pay for everything.


***

There was once a young boy named Peppermint Moon, and he had dark hair and a dozen freckles on his nose. He was the faithful apprentice of an expert candle-maker. Candles were very important in the kingdom where he lived, because every candle represented human lives, and they were offered to the god who reigned the whole realm. The god kept the kingdom wealthy and protected, as long as the people sacrificed a candle every five years, under a full moon and a glittering sky—the perfect night.

Janne snorted on his coffee.

“His name really has to be Peppermint, Mister Killian. It just clicked.”

Peppermint’s teacher taught him everything he knew; how to shape candles flawlessly and how to match them with a certain person’s soul. Every time a baby was born they would be there, right next to the doctor, examining the newborn and the mother while taking down important notes. After witnessing such a bloody event the candle-maker and his apprentice would go back to their office and start making candles, and the happy parents would pay them the next day.

Candle-makers, on the other hand, were orphans—lost and abandoned children, and therefore they deserved no candles. They were safe from the god who lived beyond the north wood.

“Good for them, really.”

There was a cave where all the candles were kept, and only candle-makers were allowed to enter. The tall candles boasted of long lives, but in some rare occasions as a few tall ones would break and the lives would shorten if they were far too skinny. Coloured candles were very pretty, candles with intricate designs even more, and that was all they were, nothing else. Just pretty.

In the eve of the new year, the President and his appointed officials would call for a meeting and decide who would be the next sacrifice. They’d write their choices on a piece of paper, under five crucial minutes, and drop the rolled papers in a transparent bowl. The president had the unenviable job of pulling out the fated paper. Once a name was announced, the person identified with that name would be informed, and the people in the Kingdom would make his or her life happy and pleasant until the last month of the year. In December the candle-makers would take out the sacrifice’s candle and entrust it to his or her care. Then they would stand watch as the sacrifice walked towards the woods of god, only to disappear forever.

“What the hell? Hahahah!”

Peppermint always wondered what was beyond the wood—if god were really there, waiting to devour a new soul every five years, or if something else happened to the sacrifices. There were rumours that death would not greet you, only heaps of gold and rare gems, and nobody ever came back because life outside the kingdom was much easier. Other rumours said that sacrifices were made into gods by the ultimate god himself. Nobody dared enter the wood even after hearing such tantalizing gossip because they were afraid of making mistakes.

Peppermint was different. He really wanted to know. However, he wasn’t that desperate, and so he spent most of his time making candles and watching the stars from the roof of his apartment.

By doing so, he met it.

Star.

Star was just like any other star; tiny and twinkling and beautiful. Unlike other stars, however, it wasn’t part of any circle. It was far from other star clusters, and its light was pretty weak, so it was oftentimes ridiculed by fellow heavenly bodies.

“Star? Isn’t that confusing? Why don’t you give it a name so that the readers can differentiate Star from all the other stars?”

“You don’t get it. Star isn’t just any other star. It is Peppermint’s Star. Star, not a star. Just Star.

…With a capitalized first letter.”

Peppermint loved Star. Every night, while making candles, he would talk to it, laugh with it. They occasionally exchanged jokes and insights, and bared their souls and secrets to each other. Star would comment on his lovely work, and Peppermint would praise its brightness, even if they both knew that Star was the most inconspicuous star in the sky.

The young boy loved Star so much, so much that he was willing to leave his life as a candle-maker-in-training just to join it in space. Peppermint pleaded to his teacher; he knelt with clasped hands as tears ran down his cheeks, begging his teacher to help him meet Star for his love was unquenchable.

The candle-maker looked at him with miserable eyes. ‘It is impossible. Star is too far away.’

‘There must be a way,’ wept Peppermint.

Daman Kayne glared.

“Sorry, sorry!” laughed Janne, and his nose wrinkled adorably. “The name Peppermint is just so distracting!”

Anyway, the candle-maker gave in to his apprentice's doe eyes.

‘There is a way, but it may be fatal.’

Peppermint was determined.

‘You have to meet god. Only he can help you.’ With that said, the teacher firmly believed that Peppermint would stop his nonsense and go back to being a simple candle-maker apprentice. Much to his chagrin, the young boy smiled.

‘Okay.’ Peppermint gathered all his things, and his teacher looked at him in shock.

‘Are you insane?! You can’t just go in the woods and kill yourself!’

‘If our god can help me meet Star, I’ll be more than happy, and I could just die.’

‘You don’t even have a candle!’

‘Then I’ll make one for myself.’ Peppermint bowed his head low, and the tears suddenly flowed freely. ‘You were the only person who ever cared, teacher. Thank you just isn’t enough to reward your kindness. I promise I won’t throw away my life so heedlessly. And I promise…I promise…I’ll bless you from the skies.'

He turned away, only to notice that his teacher held his arm tightly. He opened his mouth to shout, but the candle-maker shook his head and explained himself. 'You must go to the well found in the center of the kingdom first, before you leave. Maybe...maybe you can be given advice for your travels. Speak to the old woman who begs near the well in the afternoon. She can tell you what to do.'

Peppermint Moon nodded. The candle-maker and his apprentice embraced and sobbed, then the boy prepared himself to meet God for two weeks.

Janne Killian folded his arms. “Hmmm. Travelling through the woods to meet God, and after that, heading off to space to meet his lover. Wow. Sounds like a neat adventure.”

“Is it okay?” asked Daman, very softly.

Janne leaned in to give him a wet kiss, then started murmuring in his mouth. “I’ll be working on the initial sketches tomorrow. Star. Hmmm. It would be difficult to draw Star.”

Daman placed a hand on the back of Janne’s neck to give their hungry kiss more angle and pressure. A moan escaped Janne’s lips, Daman heard the giggling again, plus more giggling voices that were different from the first, and it reminded him of the lively creatures from the court, laughing and playing to their heart’s content.

Blood-thirsty creatures keen on revenge.

Daman pulled back from this kiss abruptly, and it startled Janne. The art teacher looked almost hurt, until Daman explained that he had to go home because night was approaching, and he had to prevent the fat baldy from touching his darling cousin. He stood up and scanned the room again, determined to buy Janne a better bed, something that didn’t creak too noisily to prevent—rumours. As he walked downstairs, he envisioned a warm red rug for the floor. He glanced at the living room, and imagined a cream-coloured couch and a coffee table, and some clean blue curtains for the windows.

Not only did Daman Kayne pictured new furniture in his highly imaginative mind, he also saw himself using them. For example, he saw himself casually making out with Janne on the couch and stripping Janne of his clothing over the kitchen counter. No, no, that’s going too far, his mind scolded. He was pretty sure he was fine with just kissing.

It would be hard to get rid of the other occupants of the house, even if he asked nicely, because they were there even before he came. Heck, they were probably there even before Janne Killian was born. Most of the other occupants probably enjoyed the messy rooms, and dwelled in the tight spaces, so it seemed cruel to drive them out just for privacy. Daman was quite okay with it in the end if only they lessened the giggling, which was becoming rather annoying.

“Will you just shut up?!” shouted Daman before he stepped out the door. Janne stared at him, puzzled.

"I can't stand the bogie," he explained, a little breathless. He was very pissed because he was embarrassed--it was clear that Daman Kayne was a very private man, and all beings that dared to interrupt such meaningful isolation deserved to die a slow and tragic death. "Maybe I should do something about it..."

Janne Killian shook his head, laughing. “Oh, don't mind it! I'm used to it, and I'm sure you will be as well...don't worry, the thing sleeps most of the time, anyway, it wouldn't bother us." He pressed his cheek on Daman's shoulder, and the taller man relaxed a bit. "Wow, I thought it was all in my mind. Good thing my father told loads of stories about them, so I know all about mystical creatures even if I can’t actually see them. Is the bogie still giggling now?”

Daman Kayne shrugged, not wanting to scare Janne by mentioning that there were ten other beings in his house, and they were all laughing at them and remarking rather loudly about their activities (Daman was more than relieved to know that the neighbours couldn't hear a peep). Both men kissed for the last time that day, and the giggles erupted again, only to be silenced by an enthusiastic groan.


***


The walk home was silent. Daman Kayne’s neighbours continued to stare at him and his bent back from their windows, and they all shook their heads and made disgusted noises. Daman Kayne was used to the snorts of disapproval by then, but that night they only made his growing Irritation at the World in General far worse.

Why can’t it just…just calm down, thought Daman angrily, gritting his teeth. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started brisk-walking. Ingvar tried to console him, whistling as they walked side by side, and Daman gave him an appreciative smile. His merry friend suggested a soak in a tub full of icy water. Or sleeping on an uncarpeted floor. But Daman was still feeling very jumpy. His heart was beating wildly against his chest, and his hands were itching to hold warm skin. Nothing could freeze him—it was just too damn hot that evening.

When he was a little boy, Ciara Lunnaire would always tuck him to bed to keep him warm underneath the blankets. And if it was still too cold, Daman called Dolya, the kind old lady who lived behind the kitchen stove, and she would sew him fine scarves in varying colours.

All it took for the temperature to rise was one sweet kiss. Then his body started reacting violently, his thoughts waged war with other thoughts, and he became very excited and…afraid, very afraid.

Daman went straight to his room to take care of his problem. When was the last time, he thought crazily, and dropped down on his bed with one loud moan.