Entry tags:

lyric 7

Lyric 7

Author: Mushroom
Rating: PG-13
Notes: AITVARAS - This Lithuanian creature is described as having the appearance of a cock while in doors and the appearance of a dragon out doors. An Aitvaras will lodge itself in a house, and refuses to leave. It brings both good and bad luck to the inhabitants of the house.
NIXIE - Nixies are Germanic sprites, beings of the water.

God, that was a very long hiatus, wasn’t it? *sighs*

I miss writing.

starflare, you’ll notice something very familiar in this chapter. *winks*

[edit] After weeks of contemplation, I decided that this will not be an R-rated series. There will be mentions of sex but nothing too vulgar. It'll be PG-13 all the way. However, I plan to write hardcore smut in my next story. Hear that, Arvee? :D)




Daman Kayne’s father (“good-for-nothing, fucking son of a bitch father,” according to a close neighbor) gave in and promised to return after trying to get him off his leg for the past twenty minutes. “Here, stay with Akia, I’ll be back.” said Mister Kayne hurriedly. Little Daman wrung an arm around Akia’s furry neck and watched as the door slammed shut. The golden dog barked twice, then settled for a low growl.

“he’s not coming back, is he,”

Akia sighed. “how’d ya know?”

“he brought his toothbrush with him. i saw,”

“maybe he’ll just throw it away and buy a new one,”

His grip around Akia tightened. “no, he’s going to the house of the woman with the ugly nose. i saw. and he’s going to brush his teeth there forever and kiss her. he won’t be back. it’s what men do, said mum. know what, i don’t want to be a man when i grow up. i’ll join the circus.”



Chapter IV – Jessamine Sea


In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams
his face was inclined toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breast
and that night I was happy.

- Walt Whitman



Akia was helping Daman Kayne gather ideas for his next novel, which was yet unnamed, but that could be solved later. The fantasy writer chewed the end of his pen and scribbled furiously in his notebook, while Akia laid her head on his jeans with her pink tongue sticking out; she coated his leg with drool, but Daman was too busy to notice.

It was a scene from a merry childhood—Akia would always position herself on Daman’s long legs to rest, especially when the weather was cool. They were in Janne Killian’s house that Sunday morning, sprawled on the living room carpet. They pushed all the shelves at one corner to make more room. Janne didn’t mind, and said he welcomed the space. But there was no denying that he missed the mess; every time he stepped inside the living room he would wrinkle his forehead and mutter under his breath.

Daman scratched Akia’s fur absentmindedly and wrote: Peppermint Moon heads to the well found in the town center and sees an old woman begging for alms. Old woman tells him to drop everything he owns in the well if he wants to gain entry to the Northern Wood, and he does—including his clothes. Then he was told to wait for the go signal. It was stormy that night; he took shelter in an abandoned shack, and his primrose skin was damp with sweat and rain…

Akia shook her head, and Daman looked at her questioningly. They stared for a few minutes, round brown eyes mirrored against Daman’s dreary grey, and he finally returned Peppermint Moon’s clothing.

You’re no fun, teased the writer. The golden dog continued to glare. But Peppermint Moon is really supposed to give up everything, he continued, so that he’ll receive the same amount of blessings in return.

Wake-Robin Breen’s editor was more than relieved to hear that Daman Kayne and Janne Killian have already begun working on their next project together; he was worried that they were having too much fun, and besides, Wake-Robin Breen’s fans were clamoring for another masterpiece from the acclaimed author. The editor received dozens of letters from excited readers every single day, and they were slowly driving him mad. He told Gilmour to bring the letters with him to class. Janne Killian would have headaches right after reading them.

Surprisingly, Daman Kayne and Janne Killian volunteered to work together, which was a first since they handled their jobs individually during the past. The editor was pleased to see that they were getting along very well; Mister Killian would whisper endless suggestions and plans into Mister Kayne’s ear, and their conversations were intimate. Closeness provides a healthy work environment, said Wake-Robin Breen’s editor. Healthy indeed, especially the way Mister Killian would idly drum his fingers on Daman’s denim-covered thigh.

Daman found it quite easy to write this time around; he felt closer to the material and wrote on impulse. Before his seventh book he would make an outline of events before writing a novel, in bullet form, but for weeks he penned whatever he wanted to include in the story when he felt like it. There were no restrictions, no deadlines…just feelings on a notebook.

He wondered what caused him to change, but he knew deep down—he just couldn’t believe it. And that wasn’t important. What bothered him had this feeling of urgency, and it beleaguered him in his sleep even if he tried his hardest to dismiss it. It was The Call. It irritated him. His friends noticed his restlessness and asked him about it, but their questions only increased his uncertainty and irritation. Ingvar never stopped reminding him of it—he even acted out what could possibly happen in the near future. It was obviously the first time he had that certain problem, because Daman Kayne lashed out at Ingvar in a public place, inciting gasps and giggles from the passers-by. Daman ignored him for days, while Ingvar stalked off to live with the faeries. He came back after a week because Daman fell ill in his absence.

There was another circumstance that troubled Daman Kayne, although it seemed unlikely; but it troubled him, anyway. He would wake up and open the windows, half-expecting to see the whole street ablaze. To be honest, he detested the sight of the identical, boring houses, but he did not wish ill on other people. When he wished things, they often came true—that was his power. He was a very dangerous man.

Daman shook his head and tried to concentrate. He did not get much sleep last night, but he wanted to do his best that day. At exactly eleven-thirty he felt warm, ticklish breath crawl against his bared shoulder and heard a whispery, gentle voice that was simply Killian brand. “Mmmm. How are you, Mister Kayne?”

Daman exhaled dramatically and leaned against the warmth of Janne’s chest. Akia whimpered and brushed her wet nose on his knee. “Everything’s looking good. You?”

“Liar. Your forehead is all wrinkly and you’ve been grunting by yourself for an hour now.”

“Don’t you have brats to teach?” yawned Daman Kayne, settling his notebook and pen on the floor.

“My Sundays are off. If they were here everyday…anyway, you look depressed. Something wrong? Stomach problem?” Janne smiled deviously.

Daman paused for a moment before speaking. “Nothing important.”

“Everything’s okay at home, right? With Miss Kayne?”

“She’s dating the fat baldy as we speak. They’re shopping or something. But it’s not about her. It’s just…it’s nothing,” Daman pulled away from Janne’s arms and reached out to caress Akia’s fur again. He felt the other man move forward and jab his shoulder. He yelped. “Mister Killian!!!”

“You’re hiding something,” pressed Janne. “Tell me.”

Daman closed his eyes and grunted for the hundredth time. “My feet hurt because I searched aimlessly in the grocery store last night while Lune shopped for uhm, tampons because Ingvar decided to play a trick on me and hid in one of the shelves. I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing indeedy,” said Janne in a murmur. Daman Kayne had recently discovered that Janne was dangerously playful. The whole ‘upright model art teacher with loony hair’ only claimed a portion of his personality—there was a tiger within him, and it was often mischievous.

“Come on, take your shoes off,” Janne stood up from the floor and flopped down on the couch. “And your socks, too. Hurry.”

Daman did what he was told while Janne dumped the dusty romance novels scattered on the couch in a randomly-pulled box. When the couch was finally mess-free, Daman settled down and Janne looked at him expectantly. “Roll up your pants.”

“What?”

“You don’t want to? You can take your pants off instead, if you like,”

Daman fought off a blush and rolled up his pants ‘till his knees, revealing pale and moderately hairy legs. Janne ordered him to lean against the arms of the sofa and placed a cushion behind his back and reclined his legs with another pillow underneath. Daman stretched his legs and placed his feet on Janne’s lap.

The blonde faced him with a slight smile and observant eyes. Warm, supple palms and fingers touched Daman’s knee, and he jumped.

Daman smiled apologetically, and the other man laughed.

“ Mister Kayne, you…you have a lot of scars,” noted Janne softly after a few seconds of staring.

“Fell down from mean trees many times,” he explained, “and I loved playing in the forest with all my other friends. Sometimes you forget that not all of them are your true friends, and they’re pretty sneaky, you know? They told me I could fly if I ran fast enough, but running has nothing to do with it. Actually, you don’t need to move your legs, or your body for that matter, you just have to feel… ”

Janne’s warm hands journeyed downwards, rubbing his legs, and Daman released a small sigh. The art teacher smiled at him and continued stroking, up and down, very slowly. His thumbs pressed against the other’s skin, soothing the nerves, removing the stress and pain from yesterday’s search.

Daman closed his eyes, losing himself to Janne Killian’s touch. He groaned when Janne stroked harder and longer.

“Never experienced a foot massage before?” asked Janne as he pulled at his toes teasingly.

“Er, not like this,” said Daman breathlessly, and his eyes shot open when the feeling Janne’s touch vanished. He looked around and spotted Janne rummaging through a cabinet in the bathroom. The blonde returned, bringing with him a bottle of aromatherapy oil, a small towel, a bowl filled with water, and a meaningful smirk.

Daman Kayne soaked his feet on the lukewarm water for a few minutes and bit his lip when he heard giggles from the other side of the room. Gits, he thought, before propping his feet up again on the couch. Janne carefully dried Daman’s feet with the towel, making sure that he wiped the spaces between his toes as well.

“Music, Mister Kayne? Just to make you relax.”

Nothing felt more wonderful, so it took him several seconds before he could reply. “…I like background music. Nature stuff, like waterfalls.”

“I only have dance tapes, sorry,” said Janne, still with a teasing voice. “Complete silence, then?”

Akia barked in agreement, and a few giggles erupted from the closet. Janne applied the aromatherapy oil in his hands and rubbed vigorously. “Relax. Just relax. There…”

Janne held Daman’s left foot and began to massage the surface. He used his thumbs to press lightly and slowly against his toes all the way up to his ankles, where he rubbed more firmly against rougher skin. Then his hands traveled downwards in a soft, languorous motion. This was repeated several times, until Janne did the same with the sole of his foot, thumbs rubbing against the soft skin there.

“Feels good, doesn’t it…” said Janne huskily, not really asking.

Daman started shaking with unabated pleasure. Nobody did this to him before. He had his back rubbed, sure, but he always took his feet for granted. Every foot must have this experience, he thought, while Janne gently moved his ankle from side to side and started rotating his foot gently in different directions. The way the art teacher held his foot as if it was precious completely floored him. Daman Kayne could feel the stress leave his senses; he looked at Janne’s determined gaze and felt something hot swirl in his abdomen. He moaned. The giggles started again, but they seemed miles away. His hands reached for Akia and caressed.

The world became Janne Killian’s skilled fingers and Akia’s golden hair.

“So good,” he wanted to say, but the words came out as a gasp. Janne smiled knowingly, making his movements slower, his hands warming tired skin.

Daman’s thoughts wandered. He imagined the blonde’s hands working wonders in other parts of his body. His eyes strayed to the bathroom, at the comfort and privacy provided there.

“Now you tell me what’s bothering you,” Janne worked on the area below the large toe, rubbing his thumb gently while moving to the other toes. Nervousness kicked in again but Janne’s fingers told him there was nothing to be afraid of; he kneaded the sole of his foot using his knuckles, still as gentle and slow as before. Daman’s body visibly relaxed as he gave in to those wonderful hands.

“Faery visited. Told me this world is ending. Other worlds have already ended. I-I just…I just couldn’t believe we’re next.” A thumb walked on his toes, pushing softly, from the large toe down to the heel.

“And who was this faery?” Suddenly the whole house was silent; everyone was listening.

“Curupira. He was informed. We’re—We’re all going to die. It’s our fault, I know, but it really worries me. I couldn’t tell everyone to run for their lives, that’s for sure. They’ll think I’m insane. They already think I’m insane. And it’ll make things worse. But nobody will believe me.”

“Are you sure about the news? Is it…” Janne couldn’t pick the right words. He placed Daman’s left foot down on the sofa and started massaging the right one. “..Is it official?”

“I guess so. Curupira wouldn’t lie about something like that. He dropped by just to tell me the news.”

They both fell silent. Janne’s eyes betrayed no fear, only a resigned acceptance. Then he told him a secret. His father told him all about it. They could be saved. Outside Anwar was an unused bus stop. It had no shed, only an old bench. The bus traveled to different countries, to far-off lands that were safer. They could board the bus and leave Anwar Town forever. “We’ll have to pack, of course, and warn a few worthy people. We can trick them into saying that it’s an out-of-town vacation,” Janne was babbling, but he couldn’t stop. He seemed rather excited—there was a mad gleam in his brown eyes. “We’ll just bring what we need. The bus shows up when we truly wish to see it. Father told me before he passed away, in a really urgent tone, so I’m sure it exists.”

Daman Kayne was surprised. He had never heard of that story before. “I’ll go ask Missis Erzulie for more information.” Janne gave him an ecstatic grin, signifying that everything was going to be fine. They grinned at each other until Janne dropped his gaze down to his right foot. “I’ll go pamper this first, and then we can have some snacks.”

Daman Kayne stared at Janne Killian. He was not afraid, even if Daman Kayne just announced the destruction of their world. Armageddon should not be taken lightly. Nevertheless, the blonde was in high spirits, and he even started humming.

“It wasn’t a joke, by the way,” said Daman, and Janne gave him a smile that meant he understood.

If Mister Killian isn’t afraid, then I don’t need to worry, he told himself.

They laughed and shared stories and jokes for an hour. When Janne moved forward to initiate a passionate kiss, Daman remembered his other problem, which seemed even worse than the former. Akia noticed this, and jumped on the sofa to prevent Daman from doing something stupid. She started slobbering at Daman’s chin, which made Janne Killian chuckle good-naturedly. Men and dog wrestled on the sofa.

They laughed and laughed and forgot the world’s end.


***


While Janne gave another lesson on contemporary art (he showed his students pictures of the fairly modern assemblage), Daman Kayne spent the whole day fixing Janne’s things—or at least trying to. The shelves appeared to be lodged in their places permanently, seeing as there were about six or more of them in each room and it was difficult to just push them somewhere else. He spent four hours stacking papers, collecting pens, and organizing books alphabetically. Daman was not a particularly tidy man—he mostly left Ciara Lunnaire to do all the chores—but he was interested in Janne. So he looked through his books and sketches and took note of his sense of style.

He was snooping around, but Janne never told him not to.

Because of his snooping, Daman was sure he saw an Aitvaras chasing an old man up the chimney a few moments ago. It was a good thing, since the old man could terrorize the children and steal them away. He reminded himself to feed the Aitvaras and the others after dinner in gratitude.

He carried a heavy box from behind a rickety armchair and dropped it on a wooden table. Wiping the sweat on his brow with his sleeves, he carefully opened the box and scanned its contents. There were papers with punched holes and thick notebooks with different colours. Daman Kayne wrinkled at the mess and read a page from a notebook. “8 AM Mondays, must practice martial arts. 8 AM Tuesdays is violin practice. 8 AM Wednesdays, oboe practice. 8 AM Thursdays, yoga. 8 AM Fridays, cup of coffee in café while reading new book. 8 AM weekends are for touring. What the heck!” he read the other pages, and they all consisted of a very rigid schedule. Only one hour was saved for ‘Anything Goes’, and it was only during 12 midnight on Sundays.

He picked up a neon-green notebook and read. It still contained a cruel schedule, but the activities were different. The notebook was based on another year. “12 PM Mondays, poetry-reading session. 12 PM Tuesdays, lunch with girlfriend (Daman felt a sudden pang of jealousy; its strange how love can make you feel the worst feeling in the world). 12 PM Wednesdays, public speaking class. God. This guy’s a monster.” His admiration for the art teacher grew, but he still thought he was a freak. A freak he truly loved, which made things more complicated.

Then again, it showed that Janne Killian was special, just like him. Magical, although his powers were not awakened yet, but still very skilled. Daman Kayne realized that Janne spent his whole life learning and re-learning things, and was open to new possibilities. He was an adventurer, someone Daman Kayne needed.

You don’t deserve him, someone said in his mind.

He spotted a few photographs of Janne, and noted one that featured him playing chess and looking very smug. “He’s good at everything!” He exclaimed in disbelief. “I wonder what else he’s good at—”

“I can lick my nose!” announced the art teacher who was standing by the doorway. Daman glanced at him, flabbergasted. Janne always managed to sneak up on him, something that never happened when he was with other humans.

Fixing his composure, Daman Kayne walked up to him and they kissed lightly. “Really?”

“No, but I know a lot of tongue tricks,” said Janne, and Daman blushed. “Hmmm. You’ve seen my old notes. I was supposed to get rid of them. But I forgot all about it.”

“I noticed that there’s no notebook for this year.” said Daman.

“Well, yes. I’ve already learned all I need to know, seen all the places and people. I wanted this year to be ‘Anything Goes’. And it has been Anything Goes since I met you. I’m happier now.” Janne rested his chin on Daman’s shoulder and toyed with his shirt’s collar.

“But why did you torture yourself by cramming everything in twenty years?” whispered Daman in his ear. Janne huffed.

“I wanted to try everything. I was a crazy, adventurous soul back then.”

They kissed again. Janne Killian was aggressive, impatiently biting at his lower lip, and Daman laughed and pulled his head back. “Silly. Why are you in a hurry? We have all the time in the world.”

“Funny, a while ago you said otherwise.” said Janne. He carried the box and placed it beside the garbage bin.


***


Ciara Lunnaire returned from her date with Carlos Evoy at eleven-thirty in the evening. He took her to dinner in a fancy restaurant, as usual. Mister Evoy joked and laughed at his jokes without inhibition; good thing Ciara Lunnaire trained herself to chuckle and smile at the right moments.

Her jaw ached terribly, though.

There was nothing wrong about Mister Evoy, to be honest. He was very nice and polite, and told many interesting stories—but his stories were about cars and important people and places, things she knew nothing about. He also never hid the fact that he was a ladies’ man; it even seemed like he was proud, boasting of his affairs like they were part of an invaluable collection. She was the perfect catch, of course, so he ignored his other women. Ciara Lunnaire did not know whether she should be flattered or indignant.

During dates with Mister Evoy, she couldn’t help but miss Daman Kayne. Her cousin’s stories were foolish and ridiculous, but they always made her laugh. He was a master storyteller with an enthralling voice that could keep his readers or listeners hooked until the end, a talent Mister Evoy apparently lacked.

Ciara Lunnaire, deep down, appreciated Daman Kayne’s talent. His tales of different creatures and worlds frightened her, because it showed he wasn’t a normal, functioning human being. And yet she found herself keeping copies of Wake-Robin Breen’s novels hidden beneath her pillow. She read them over and over again before she slept, sometimes with tears in her eyes. It isn’t normal, she would tell herself, that Daman would preoccupy himself with these things at his age; good lord, he’s almost thirty! However, whenever she spied Daman and Janne happily talking about Nixies, whatever they were, she couldn’t deny the gnawing feelings of envy and remorse.

She fell in love with Hymns of the Everlasting in particular, also the favourite novel of Daman Kayne. It was a story about Marinette, a deity of the earth, who fell in love with a gardener. Their complicated and insane quest for an unprejudiced world made Ciara Lunnaire laugh and cry and feel stupid all at the same time. For a mere children’s book to evoke such emotions within her…she thought she was beyond saving.

Marinette and her gardener found their world, among the Everlasting. A happy ending—it was a children’s book, after all. After reading Hymns of the Everlasting Ciara Lunnaire would smile at herself, heart a little lighter, then she would remember what she was doing and would instantly be revolted at her display of happiness. She loved and hated Wake-Robin Breen’s books. They made her think things she shouldn’t be thinking.

His books made things seem complicated. Things were simpler, then. All she had to do was to marry a rich man and have kids, and she would be happy for the rest of her life. All she had to do was to work hard and gain a decent reputation.

But Hymns of the Everlasting made her think. It made her believe that there was more to life than working hard in the kitchen and laughing at Mister Evoy’s hollow jokes. It made her believe that there was a field of flowers waiting for her, somewhere, and that frolicking with a gardener was better than shopping for new clothes.

It hurt. Ciara Lunnaire knew it was impossible, that she was hoping for nothing, and that made her hate the book more than ever, because reading it was akin to rubbing salt on her wounds.

“Daman? Are you home?” Ciara Lunnaire dropped her things on the sofa and searched the house for her cousin. She checked his bedroom and the bathroom, but he was not around. Even the study, where he usually worked, was deserted. Ciara Lunnaire approached his worktable and arranged his messy papers absently. She noticed a piece of crumpled paper and examined it.

Poetry.

To Him.

There were mentions of periwinkles and daffodils and lean, hard bodies moving in rhythm. Then she smelled the intoxicating scent of sweat and…Ciara Lunnaire dropped the papers and closed her eyes, waiting for them to disappear.

She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling.


***


At 1 PM Daman Kayne arrived along with Akia, softly humming an unknown tune. Ciara Lunnaire was seated in the dining room, obviously waiting for him. The food was ready.

“Hi, Lune.” said Daman, helping himself with a gulp of coffee. Akia went straight to her food bowl and indulged, tail wagging contentedly.

“Hi. I reheated dinner.” Ciara Lunnaire pushed a plate of pasta toward him, and Daman accepted it gratefully.

“You’re the best, Lune!” crowed Daman, and he ate noisily. His cousin watched him, eyes intent.

“So, where have you been?”

Daman swallowed. “I was working with Mister Killian. Akia helped.” He glanced at the dog and smiled softly.

“Right. Doesn’t he have class tomorrow? You guys have been working too hard.” Ciara Lunnaire poured him some coffee.

“Well, we’ve been having problems,” said Daman, “Mister Killian can’t seem to visualize one of my characters, and I’m having problems with the flow of the story.” He sipped on his mug, brows furrowed. “I’m kind of stuck in this really awkward moment. I’m halfway through the story—it’s always the hard part. I don’t know where my character’s supposed to go,” The author chewed wistfully. “I…I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

“Maybe you’re distracted,” said Ciara Lunnaire. She slowly untied her apron and placed it on the counter, lingering for a moment to feel the cool kitchen tiles with her shaking hands.

“I don’t think I’m experiencing a writer’s block…I mean…I know how the story’s going to be. I just can’t…I just can’t work on it.” Daman Kayne munched lazily, looking very lost.

Ciara Lunnaire sensed that something was wrong, very wrong. “What happened?”

“There’s something I want to do,” said the author, “But I don’t know if I should do it. I mean, I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. But I really, really, really want to do it!” He threw his hands up in the air and sighed. “Is it wrong for me to think this way? To feel this way?”

“What are you saying?” demanded Ciara Lunnaire, eyes widening. She knew it would come, but her heart couldn’t…

“I’m so human. It’s annoying. Even my powers can’t handle it; I’m supposed to be stronger than this—”

Daman Kayne jumped when he heard hands slam on the table. He looked up to see a distraught Ciara Lunnaire. Her lips formed a thin line and it looked like she was trying hard not to strangle something. Him.

“Daman,” she said through gritted teeth, “Have you been drinking your medicine?”

He avoided her gaze.

“DAMAN!”

“I can’t take them, Lune.” said Daman in an irritated tone. “They’re killing me!”

“B-but the doctors said that they would help get rid of the illusions!” sputtered Ciara Lunnaire, who stood up and started walking around the room in mad circles. “You’re talking about your nonexistent powers again, when we’ve tried so hard to cure you…we spent years, Daman, do you even know how hard it was for me to see you there, in the hospital, while they were…oh god…oh god…I thought you were over this?!”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Lune.” Said Daman Kayne calmly, as if his cousin were not in hysterics at that moment. “I really do have powers. You must understand. Janne witnessed my powers months ago, and he was okay with it. He’s been helping me develop them. I get to show him off to my other friends, too, and they really like him. Who wouldn’t? He’s brilliant. It’s going to be alright.”

Ciara Lunnaire’s fair face transformed into a vicious shade of purple as she looked at her cousin with alarm. “W-What other…you actually have other friends?!”

“Haven’t I introduced them to you yet? You know, Obi—“

“Obi’s a DUST BALL UNDERNEATH YOUR BED!”

“He looks like a dust ball, but he’s a really clever dust ball—“

“Stop talking shit!” Ciara Lunnaire snapped, pointing a shaking finger at him. “You. Stop. This. Nonsense. Right. Now. It’s not funny, Daman. Shut up.”

Daman Kayne stared at her, eyes revealing sincerity. “The doctors were wrong, Lune. (Shut up.) They’re real. I tried to ignore them, but they’re real. (Shut up!) The doctors have been tricking us. And because of them, we will all pay.”

“How could they—t-they’ve been—I contacted the best doctors, the best psychiatrist, Mister Evoy paid for the—how could you—how…” She was overwhelmed by the situation. Her eyes told her that Daman Kayne was not hers to manage anymore. He was on his own. “…How could you just throw our efforts away…?”

Daman stood up from his seat and smiled weakly. “Don’t worry, we won’t be harmed. Mister Killian suggested we can leave this place before they come to get us. So don’t you fret, okay? You mad woman.” He snorted and gave her a long, lingering hug.

Ciara Lunnaire could not speak. She could not tell him that she knew, that she had seen the ceiling. His hug reminded her of better days, so she gave in. She even managed to smile when Daman tugged at her ponytail.

“You look tired, Lune. Something happened with you and Mister Evoy? I mean, you’ve never been this frantic.”

“No,” said Ciara Lunnaire tersely, then flushed when Daman Kayne poked her eye bags. “Well, you arrived home late. I was worried; it’s almost two o ‘clock.” Her mind ordered her to demand why, but she bit her tongue.

Daman glanced at his shadow and made wild movements with his arms, like a clown. “It’s not early; it’s late cos it’s already morning. Get it? Haha, get it? …Okay, you don’t.”

Daman volunteered to wash the plates after they finished eating, saying that he had to feed the house spirit, anyway. Ciara Lunnaire told him to drink his medicine, not sure if Daman Kayne was listening because he was speaking to himself. Again.


***


“For goodness sake, stop fighting!” shouted an exasperated Janne.

Gilmour glared at the meek girl as she wept noisily. “I wasn’t doing anything!”

“He called me a girl.” She whined, looking absolutely upset.

“But you ARE a girl!” retorted Gilmour. Janne Killian frowned.

“He said it in a bad way,” sniffed the little girl. “And I’m not a girl! I’m a woman now.” Her eyes strayed to Wake-Robin Breen who was seated at the corner of the room with Akia, giving Janne heated looks and obviously not paying attention to the bickering children. Granted, the little girl was already thirteen and sporting a few curves here and there, but she was still bony in some places.

“She called me a liar,” said Gilmour, quietly this time.

“It’s true,” scoffed the little girl. “There’s no such thing as a channeling.”

“Changeling,” corrected the boy. Daman and Janne traded significant looks.

The art teacher resolved the fight by announcing a quiz, so the others gave the two dirty looks.

Art class was almost over when Gilmour approached Wake-Robin Breen, looking really wicked. The author was imagining Peppermint Moon’s quest, and failed to notice the mischievous smile plastered on the little boy’s face.

Peppermint Moon, after sacrificing all his belongings, went straight to his quarters to create a candle for himself. His ordeal lasted for hours, then days, and when he was finally done he collapsed on the floor and shook his head.

‘I can’t do it.’ He realized, and headed for the Northern Wood. The whole town watched as he marched to the forest, bringing nothing but a ball of wax. The mist grew thicker, and he disappeared in the eyes of the townsfolk. For them, he was as good as dead.

“What’re you doing?” asked Gilmour, interrupting his reverie.

Daman smiled at him, quite disoriented. “Uh, I’m working.”

“No you’re not. You were just biting your lip and ogling at Mister Killian the whole day.” announced the boy, voice loud enough for the rest of the class to hear.

“I don’t—I don’t ogle!” denied Daman, and the class laughed. He couldn’t help it. Janne was wearing tight-fitting leather pants. “Besides, don’t you know this is how writers work? We sit in a corner and uhm, ponder about life.”

Gilmour’s grin was as bright as Janne’s, and he groaned. “Never mind. What do you want?” The usual light mist was behind Gilmour again, and it almost smothered him.

Gilmour leaned forward with a mischievous grin, but immediately dropped the façade. He looked grim. “I saw an old man a while ago, by the entrance of the School of Muses.”

“Do I know him?”

“Stop playing dumb. I know you know that I really flew off that window. And I know that you can see this thing,” he pointed at his back, “behind me.”

They fell silent.

“Don’t worry, an Aitvaras was set loose to capture the Bodach,” said Daman after a long pause, and felt really weird to be discussing things he was forced to keep secret with his editor’s son, of all people.

“Good. It also helps if you keep the dog around,” the boy nodded at Akia, acknowledging her skill to sense evil bogies. “This place reeks of ‘em. The School of Muses needs a cleansing. So, anyway…”

“How’d you—“ began Daman, but then stopped when Janne Killian approached them and asked what was wrong.

“Mister Kayne was telling me that you have great legs,” said Gilmour before sprinting off to the exit to join his classmates. Janne looked at Daman, flattered and a little stunned, so Daman shrugged and pulled him close. The mist lingered.


***


They were kissing intensely under Missis Erzulie’s shade when Daman felt a stab in his abdomen. He moved forward, pinned Janne beneath him, and kept his tongue busy. He felt Missis Erzulie poking at his back, whispering suggestions in his ear.

It was impossible to ignore his growing attraction to Janne Killian. It was not distracting him; rather, it was guiding him, telling him what to do next. In truth, he really knew what the next step would be. He liked to believe that he was just confused and informed Ciara Lunnaire about it, but it was clear what he really wanted.

Daman was frightened out of his mind. He never went this far with anyone before.

Janne made a longing noise when Daman stopped the kiss.

“I brought a fortune cookie with me,” explained Daman. He mentally stabbed himself for sounding so silly. “Uhm, let me check it first.”

Janne watched bemusedly as the other man cracked a cookie open and unrolled the piece of paper inside it.

Express it and the world is yours.

“I think this fortune cookie is psychic,” chuckled Daman uneasily. His hands were shaking uncontrollably now, and he almost dropped the paper. Janne gasped softly and held his trembling hands.

“You can tell me, sssshhh,” said Janne quietly, stroking his fingers. “You can tell me.”

“No, I can’t.” Daman turned to face Janne, their fingers still intertwined, and his lips almost touched Janne’s; he heard the other man sigh, but he did not kiss him. Janne felt nervous breath against his mouth, and he frowned.

“If this is about the end of this world, then you don't need to…”

“No, no, not about them,” Daman panted as he pressed their foreheads together. “About us…”

Janne was aware that his lover had been agitated for the past weeks; he muttered even in his sleep. He continued massaging Daman’s whitened knuckles. “Say something,” Urged the blonde, anxiety gnawing at his insides.

“No, no, listen to me, Janne…”

“I am listening.”

“No, you’re not…don’t listen to my words, Mister Killian. They’re…not real, they’re not…what I really mean,” Daman gripped the other man’s hands tightly, and murmured, “L-Listen to what I’m not telling you.”

“What? I don’t get…” Janne tried to move away to look at Daman properly, but the author pulled him close again.

“No, no…listen to what I’m not saying, try to hear what I haven’t told you yet, just pay attention to what I...”

“M-Mister Kayne—“

“…Listen.” Said Daman firmly, and he pressed their lips together at last.

Weeks of torment and uncertainty clouded that kiss. Fear. Fear of losing someone important. It was just like the time Daman Kayne decided to publish his first novel. There was the fear of rejection. Scorn. There was the feeling that he was not good enough. Paranoia ate his confidence.

As the kiss deepened, there was the feeling of bliss, of passion. Unlocking himself. Showing everything. Wanting to share everything. Selfishness. Self-reliance. Generosity. The goal to please, to please himself, to please him. When his novel received awards and rave reviews, there was the choice to move forward. There was the choice to discover, to reward himself.

Daman Kayne told Janne Killian a story. The story of his life during the past few weeks. His lips were eloquent; his hands stroking the other’s neck and back were verbose. The incoherent sounds he made in between kisses spoke volumes and volumes of pent-up hunger.

The story moved on and on, and when it ended, it only meant the beginning of something else.

“I think…I think you want to have sex with me.” said Janne, face a little flushed.

“That about sums it up, yeah.” Daman grinned blushingly, scratching his head.

Janne leaned on Missis Erzulie’s trunk and smiled, resting a palm on Daman’s cheek.

“…Okay.” A hint of nerves there.

“O-Okay.”

“Where…?”

“I have a bigger…bedroom,” The conversation was beginning to become very awkward. “And a bigger bed.” he added hastily, remembering the way Janne’s coloured hair gleamed against his pillows.

“Then that’s the place,” Janne stood up and collected his belongings, fingers still threaded with Daman’s. He pulled him up to stand as well.

“Do you…Missis Erzulie told me it can be painful—do you even want to…you…”

“Have sex with you?” Janne prompted, and Daman grew red. “I don’t really know. But you’re…hot, and I love you, so it wouldn’t be a problem. Why would people risk it if it hurts? I’ll enjoy it, then. And it’s you, Daman. I want you, too. I just wasn’t sure that making love with you was what I wanted, but now I am, since you’ve brought it up. There are a million things I want to ask you, like…why you…desire me, when I don’t even deserve you—“

“—Shut up, I’m the one who doesn’t deserve—“

“—Yes, yes we don’t deserve each other. So maybe we really do. Anyway, let’s do it.” Janne had that excited look again, and Daman stared at him, slack-jawed. He was excited too, of course, and happy that things were looking bright.

They walked to Daman’s place, holding hands, while Ingvar danced behind them. The neighbors observed the phenomenon.