Scene 3: A dormitory, soon to be vacated.

  The meager belongings that comprise Rafael’s entire life in captivity make a petty and pitiful bundle, all told. Some jewelry, a cheap pack of cards, a cheaper palm-sized spiralbound notebook, a few pens, a makeup case, his lotion. Then his clothes, such as they are. A few pairs of pants, a few shirts, a few underthings, all of it just the same as all the other boytoys around here wear. There's only one walk-in wardrobe for the lot of them at the end of the hall, stocked with a bulk assortment of the sort of cheaply and generically sexy little garments that suit Carraway’s taste. All in black, to compliment the collar and cuffs, or white, to contrast them. Silky or gauzy. Low cut or skintight or a temptingly loose drape…

  Rafael used to take the time to assemble whole outfits, artful little compositions that pretended to some delusional standard of aesthetics. After a while it just felt too sad, too pathetic, and he lapsed into a depressed rotation of just a few tight, low-cut pants with enough stretch for comfort, a few loose silky overshirts and flowing halter-tops. Now he packs the insubstantial wisps of fabric away and finds himself wondering with an irrepressible hunger if Rich shares Carraway’s tastes. If Rich might think he was sexy. It might make things easier. At least, it would be a change.

  Finally he takes his only possession of real worth out from under the blankets, The Compleate Works of Shakespeare, and loads it with painstaking care into the pillowcase.

  “You packing for a sleepover?” Connor asks, easing curiously inside to peer around Rafael’s shoulder.

  “No, I’m.” Rafael takes a shaking breath and swallows, tries a smile, fails. He had not accounted for the possibility of the men following him to his room. Being accosted with further conversation, here in the place where there’s only ever been quiet, is even more jarring than it was in the parlor. “I’m moving.” He searches for an appropriate emotion to display at that and finds only the rising buzz of panic, barely restrained. He shoves his clothes into the pillowcase more firmly instead, determinedly clinging to his mask of distant neutrality, not looking up. “Carraway assigned me to Rich’s quarters.”

  “He what? How the hell’s that supposed to work? He’s got his whole secretary thing, the big man never threw him a roommate before.”

  Rafael shrugs uncomfortably. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me,” he admits. “Rich—didn’t even ask for me. And doesn’t seem to have wanted me. And certainly doesn’t know what to do with me now. So.”

  “So, what the hell,” Sol says, apparently having followed Connor in. His tone is distinctly hostile.

  Rafael throws his arms out in a grand, exasperated gesture, stressed past endurance. “What the entire and absolute hell, indeed!” he says, and deliberately turns his back on both intruders. Packing everything just so is a much more pressing issue than letting either of these impertinent, unwelcome guests have an uninterrupted view of his face.

  There’s an awkward pause before Connor says with determined cheer, “Well, fuck it, this could be a good thing. Rich is a sweet guy, I’ve liked havin’ him round the place. Works hard, plays nice, minds his manners. Real good friend. He’ll treat you right.”

  “As long as you make it worth his while,” Sol says in warning. “Don’t go thinking you can just—kick him around, screw with his head, treat him like crap just because you think he’s too big and tough to get his feelings hurt. He’s a good guy. You better be good to him, too.”

  Connor snickers. “Oh, they got feelings in New York? Or did you have to learn about the concept special?”

  “Get bent, I’m just saying—hey, hey! Awright, pal, you elbow me again I’ll feed you your damn ulna—”

  “Can we walk you back up?” Connor asks.

  Rafael blinks, struck by this, then blurts out, “Oh, god, yes, by all means.” He had assumed that none of the other boys would dare to take the long and treacherous path through the mansion after nightfall, when anyone found out and about without reason risks strict and crushing discipline—but if they’re willing to accompany him, then surely showing up in the company of men Rich already likes—to be vouched for, to ease his way—yes, good. Excellent.

  He smiles tentatively, and Connor’s own cautious smile grows wider and sweeter. He really does have a beautiful mouth, pink as dawn and twice as generous. It takes less effort than it might have a moment ago to answer it in kind.

  “Well, c’mon,” Sol says. “Let’s get, if we’re going.”

  “You gonna miss your roommate?” Connor asks as they venture forth. “I hate mine like hellfire, but Sol gets along just fine with his.”

  “Andy’s alright,” Sol says grudgingly. “Doesn’t snore.”

  “Considering how much of his life he’s determined to sleep away, that’s a blessing,” Connor notes.

  “I’ve had the room to myself the last few years,” Rafael says. “I believe I fell off the roster at some point. Having company once more will certainly make a change.”

  Connor whistles thoughtfully. “That’s right, you’ve been kicking around here awhile. Years, huh?”

  “Five years this winter, yes,” Rafael says.

  “Christ in heaven,” Sol says with gratifying horror.

  “I didn’t think the old man kept anyone around that long,” Connor says. “He gave Bryce away last week, he’d only been around… what’d he say, two years and change? Sounded to me like that was about the usual spell—we figure Andy’s up for grabs pretty soon.”

  “He’s not. He’s fine! He’ll be fine,” Sol snaps.

  “Carraway plays favorites. He doesn’t… keep close track of those that have fallen from his favor.” Rafael raises his jaw, aims for a light, breezy tone. “Slip far enough below his view, and it’s entirely possible to become a permanent fixture of the household, it seems.”

  “Yeah, great. Always wanted to end up some backwoods warlord’s sex furniture,” Sol mutters.

  “Funny, so did I,” Rafael returns acidly, then flinches at the sharpness of Sol’s look. He turns his face away and lengthens his stride. At least neither of his companions points out the obvious: that it’s easiest to be overlooked if you keep to your bed and rarely emerge, a bare shadow of your former self. Not that Sol could manage such a dulling of himself, Rafael fancies, even if he was willing to attempt it.

  “I got plenty complaints myself, now you mention it,” Connor says in a breezy tone, “but I sure didn’t envy Bryce. Poor bastard told me he’d see me that night, thought he was just headed out to keep the old man’s dick warm at the races, and then he was just—” he snaps his fingers and shakes his head.

  A not uncommon story. Carraway prefers the thrill of the chase, of freshly-captured men struggling for dignity and pride. Those he’s broken too thoroughly to struggle, he gives away with the ease of a man throwing out old toys to make way for the new. Traded to his cadre of greedily-grasping business partners for a favor, an invitation, a bottle of wine…

  “I’m sorry,” Rafael says, because there’s little else to say, and Connor gives a jerky shrug, sunny smile worn thin at the edges.

  “Me too,” he says. “He was a nice guy, and we only got so many of those ‘round here. Hell, maybe he got traded off to somebody who’ll just turn a guy over the desk and get it done instead of all this…” he gives a broad gesture at his own cuffs and collar, the purpling crescent of a bite mark healing on his throat, the entire concept of Carraway and his mind games. Then sighs and shakes his head. “...Or maybe he’s found hisself somewhere worse. I wouldn’t wanna roll those dice, I don’t figure. Better the devil you know, right?”

  Sol mutters something dubious, but Rafael can’t help but agree, especially given his own helpless bewilderment in the face of Rich’s wide, watchful green eyes. Rafael knows Carraway, his character and motivations, his tastes and what might deter him, but such knowledge is worse than useless when it comes to Rich. Finding a way to ask a man’s friends how he might be steered, without sounding entirely mad, is an incredibly daunting task, but…

  “You’re both of the opinion, then,” Rafael says carefully without looking back, “that Rich is disinclined to exploit whatever authority he’s granted.”

  Connor clicks his tongue. “What,” he says, “you figure he’s gonna bully you into puttin’ out? Big man won’t put a toe outta line, don’t worry about that.”

  “With his peers,” Rafael says, keeping his tone as light as he can, biting back his frustration. “I have no illusions about Carraway’s favor toward him, his treasure. Nor my own standing as—sex furniture.”

  Sol doesn’t wince at the acid in his voice, but from the corner of his eye Rafael can see the man’s long ears flick, and when he glances back Sol’s fine mouth is pressed into a bitter line.

  “Rich won't get you sent to Sandgren or anything like that, and I’ve never seen him raise a hand to anyone, for anything,” he says, sharp and certain. “He’s—he likes smaller guys, he likes keeping us—keeping them safe, even if he’s got to stick his own neck out to do it. Hell, he’d play nice even if it was just his crazy little boyfriend on the hook for it—”

  “Boyfriend?” Rafael repeats, startled.

  “His name’s Liam,” says Sol shortly, as though he regrets bringing the topic up and would be delighted to close it again as soon as possible. “Him and Rich, they’re from the same benighted enclave. An insane little worker’s cooperative out on the Great Lakes.”

  “Carraway took the both of ‘em when he was down in New Orleans,” Connor says, and Sol’s ears flick back and his taut shoulders tense even further, some muted relative of bitterness or regret flashing briefly across his gorgeous face before he masters it.

  Connor goes on, oblivious, “I’ve seen the little guy a couple times, when the boss has us in to fuck around with him. He’s some bite-size lolita mod, only he’s gotta be pretty mixed on account he actually looks older than twelve. Berserk as any toy breed I’ve ever heard of, though. The kind of puppy that’ll break his own neck on a choke chain, you know? I ain’t seen him outta handcuffs once. And not just these li’l decorative ones Carraway uses to ring us up for ass, I mean real leather and chains shit.” He rubs the back of his neck, scowling briefly. “Lord, do I hate doing the old man’s dirty work.”

  “And while he’s still locked up, when Carraway says jump, Rich tries to touch the ceiling,” Sol says bitterly. “Carraway’s playing cut-quarter king right down to the whipping boys, Rich knows if he cops an attitude or puts a foot out of line his buddy’s neck is on the line.”

  “Carraway doesn’t bring us ‘round to play with him much,” Connor says. “Seems like a fun kinda crazy, though. We fit in a good talk about how they’re cookin’ up goats with glow-horns down by Atlanta, last time. Around all the whips and drugs and the old man’s dick.”

  “Rich is a good guy,” Sol says, still bitter, transparently ignoring Connor’s musing. “A really goddamn good guy, but I wouldn’t get too attached, if I were you. You know what his big reward is when he’s jumped through enough hoops to make the boss happy? Getting to spend the night in the lolita's cell with him.”

  “Not that all the tender love and kisses do a damn thing for his temperament,” Connor remarks. “I’ve never met a toy breed that wasn’t chop-your-cock-off bonkers, and this particular little man is pretty much the best in show. If he ever gets loose he’s gonna bring this place down around our ears and I tell you what, I’m gonna cheer him on. You just can’t beat one of the rich li’l kinds of tweak for mayhem, y’know? And we sure could use a little mayhem around here!”

  Tweak is far from the worst thing Rafael has heard gene-mods called in his journeying across the continent, but it’s less than kind. Rafael winces and Sol bristles ferociously, dark eyes flashing.

  “Oh, do I know?” he says, biting, and Connor blinks at him and then has the grace to look somewhat abashed. “What, your roommate’s rubbing off on you, huh, pal?”

  Connor gives a very telling grimace. “Fuck, nah, ain’t like that,” he says. “It’s what Rich’n the little guy call it, is all! Rich went and called himself outcross the other day, and I even know that’s take-it-outside talk. Muddies up the water.”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “Uh-huh,” says Sol, magnificently and cuttingly unimpressed, and Connor holds his hands up in surrender.

  “Fine! Beg pardon, signore, you can whup me for it later.” He pronounces the Italian with a blithe carelessness that renders the word all but unrecognizable, and Sol snorts at him for it and begins keeping pace again, lips crimped in reluctant mollification. “Promise I’ll use real polite words for all the pretty babies you ‘n Rich cook up—”

  “Go to hell,” Sol says, but the tips of his ears go ruddy.

  “You can name ‘em Hastings-style: Death, Destruction, Tax Evasion—”

  Sol snarls and goes to smack the man in the back of the head, and Connor laughs and springs forward, leading him along at a merry clip down the hallway, ducking and weaving away from Sol’s attempts to slap him around the head and shoulders.

  Rafael follows along behind at a significantly more cautious pace, considering the new information. A berserk toy mod, of the type favored by the wealthy and deranged… often possessive and high-handed at the best of times, and now driven wild by Carraway’s treatment. The odds of the man breaking loose are next to nothing, but even a slight chance of Rafael having his throat chewed open by a vengeful lover is hardly pleasing. How long has it been since he had to worry about jealousy, of all things…

  He’s startled out of his thoughts to arrive at the threshold of the harem wing and find Sol waiting alone at a narrow door he’s never seen open before, bouncing impatiently on his toes.

  “Old service stair,” Sol explains tersely, his fine accent cutting through the dark like a knife. “The senior staff wasn’t so happy when Rich unlocked it for us, they don’t want us bed staff getting underfoot, so don’t fool around and don’t cheese anyone off. Come on. Quick and quiet.”

  Rafael nods, meekly intimidated, and ghosts along after Sol one brief spiraling flight upwards and then onto the second floor hall just before the upper staff residencies. There’s Connor slipping through Rich’s door, right there, easy as anything, and Sol dashing forward like a furious specter. Rafael hurries to catch up, out of breath after the stairs, and finds Connor sheltering behind Rich, who looks startled and pleased, a damp cloth in one hand. Sol’s arms are crossed as he looks Rich over, apparently giving up his vendetta against Connor for the moment.

  “I can’t believe you’re dusting,” Sol says. “There’s a cleaning staff for a reason, pal, stop trying to put them out of business.”

  “Sure, I’ll get right on that,” Rich says. He looks notably more relaxed and less strained with his friends in the room, and the gleam of mischief in his eyes when he smiles at Sol is surprisingly appealing. “Just a sec, babe, you got a smudge—” and he goes for Sol with the dust rag as Sol squawks in outrage and skitters backwards.

  “Don’t you dare,” Sol tells him as Connor cackles from the other side of the room. “I’ll end you, pal!”

  “Aw, c’mon, you just need a little polishing up!” Rich says, starting forward again.

  Rafael sticks to the wall as he circles carefully around the chase, and after a moment’s hesitation, puts his pillowcase of belongings down on the top of the dresser. He pulls out a fresh shirt and pair of pants, then startles badly as Rich says, “Oh hey, Rafael, bottom two drawers of the dresser are free now, if that works for you.”

  He waves one big hand at the dresser, Connor hoisted bodily up under his other arm. “And, uh, most of the dresser top, too, you can put your stuff wherever, and I hope you don't mind me tidying up sometimes, it's a habit.”

  Rafael follows his glance around the room and realizes the covers on the bed are absolutely straight now, without a single wrinkle, and the fringe on the top and bottom ends of the rug has been straightened out. The dresser top gleams from a recent polishing.

  “That's… fine,” Rafael says, like he has any leverage at all to tell the man what he can or can't do with his own room. “I like things neat.” He hesitates, wondering if he should put his things away in the drawers, but—Rich will no doubt poke through and take whatever he likes sooner or later anyway. Best to get that over with as soon as possible, end the suspense.

  Also, Rich and Sol and Connor are all watching him, and Rafael can feel his edges curling inwards, beginning to buckle under the pressure of their attention, their expectation. “I’ll just,” he says too quietly, gesturing to the bathroom.

  “Yeah, go ahead and clean off, you’ll feel better,” Rich says with a reassuring nod, and Rafael slips into the bathroom and nudges the door gently shut before sagging against the wall to breathe.

  By the sound of it, the chase starts up again, and the nervous tension coiling down Rafael’s back eases. They’re not murmuring about him out there, they’re not sparing him a thought, thoroughly distracted with their game. He ignores the faint bitter edge to the thought and strips for the shower.

  A normal shower. Yes. However long a normal man would wash himself, not an empty shell staring aimlessly into the blank porcelain, not a neurotic, anxious wreck of a toy rushing to come back to hang uselessly on someone’s arm. Rich’s friends are here to entertain him, Rafael needn’t rush, but he mustn’t drift away from himself either.

  It may be a long time before he can allow himself to retreat into that comforting blankness again. Opening night of a new act has come without warning or preparation. Rafael turns his face to the warmth of the water, and soaks in every moment of comfort he can, then takes a breath and begins to wash up.

  After drying off, he rubs lotion into his badly neglected skin, then reaches for his fresh clothes and abruptly realizes his own ignorance for the hundredth time in the past hour. Carraway’s boytoys are provided with panties or boxer-briefs, universally lacy, skimpy little things meant more for tearing than wearing, but it’s well known among his unfortunate toys that he prefers his boys bare and immediately accessible. It’s yet another of his mind games, with the illusion of choice but only one right answer. Rafael has grown used to going without, but he doesn’t know yet what Rich prefers, if he wants Rafael more or less covered. If Rafael, himself, wouldn’t mind another layer between himself and… the rest of tonight.

  He stands there frozen before shaking himself out of it. It is, as Rich himself put it, what it is.

  He dresses, checks himself in the mirror, dabs lotion a few more places and rubs it in, and finally breathes deep and slips out of the bathroom as unobtrusively as he can, leaving his dirty clothes in the near-empty laundry hamper behind the door.

  In the bedroom, the sides appear to have shifted now: Connor and Sol are playing catch with what looks like a peach while Rich tries to grab it out of the air with laughing protests. His bedsheet kilt, as unusual as it is, seems to grant him quite a range of movement. “Guys, come on, you’re gonna bruise it!”

  “Aw, damn, you mean you’ll have to eat it right away?” Connor says, grinning, and barely throws it to Sol before Rich corners him. “You poor li’l thing!”

  On the dresser, Rafael’s pillowcase of belongings looks untouched, as is scarcely a surprise when Rich is being so thoroughly distracted, but it leaves Rafael at a loss. He doesn’t want to put his things away only to find later that some of them have gone missing, he wants to know what’s to be lost now.

  He doesn’t often get what he wants these days. Rich indicated the empty drawers, so he probably meant Rafael to make use of them, and Rafael doesn’t want to seem reluctant to settle in. As the game of keepaway goes on behind him, he opens the pillowcase, shoves his clothes in the bottom drawer and lays out all the other items along the top of the dresser: the cards, the jewelry. Though he hesitates at laying out the notebook, he thinks of how badly it might go to indicate that he cares in any way about Rich or the others seeing his pathetic, incoherent attempts to write a play of his own, and he ends up slapping the notebook down right by the cards, like he doesn’t care at all if they decide to take it away and eat it.

  He hesitates again when he’s down to the last item. The mutilation of sixteen pages of King Lear in the course of another boytoy’s petty power-trip was bad enough. Rich is huge, and maybe he’s sweet enough to boys he doesn’t own, maybe he knows if he hurts Sol and Connor too badly Carraway might return the favor to Rich’s boyfriend—but he can hurt Rafael however he wants. And Rafael can’t help but think of circus strongmen, and how sometimes they tear dictionaries in half, just to show off. He suspects Rich could turn a dictionary into confetti.

  He pulls The Compleate Works Of Shakespeare out of the pillowcase, and lays it carefully on the last empty space on the top of the dresser. It’s still a beautiful thing after all these years, bound in soft scarlet leather and embossed in gold, the life raft that’s kept Rafael even this close to sane all this time. The most beautiful thing in a mansion overflowing with beautiful things, because it is true, and real, and worthwhile, in a place where nothing else is.

  It’s where he has kept his heart when it was too painful to have one inside himself anymore. And there it has stayed, while he has lost every other piece of himself.

  The game has paused, he realizes, and glances back to see Rich looking over at him. Rafael stands frozen under his gaze, under the curious glances of Connor and Sol, hand still resting protectively on the book’s cover. He should move, laugh, shake it off: do what he can to conceal the book’s importance so these men don’t know exactly where his weakness lies. Instead, he’s paralyzed, barely breathing, spread fingers pressed to the smooth leather. Please. Please, mercy.

  “You okay, man?” Rich says gently.

  Rafael swallows, nods, forces a shoddy attempt at a smile. He pulls his hand away from the book and steps aside with an inviting wave at the dresser top, heart in his throat.

  Rich blinks at him, glances at his belongings laid out and nods. “All set up? Is that, uh, how you want it?”

  “I thought,” Rafael manages, “it is your room, after all, and. It would be… understandable, if you were inclined to, ah, inspect it all.”

  Connor snorts and Rafael flinches a little. Sol is watching him, narrow-eyed.

  “Right,” Rich says. “Gulls don’t choke on the bones off your plate, and all. Except I’m not an animal and those aren’t galley scraps, that’s your stuff, man. Bunking up doesn’t mean I’m gonna mess with it, or poke through it or steal it or whatever, okay? And neither is anyone else.”

  Rafael stares at him, glances a little wildly at Connor, who nods encouragingly, and then Sol, who just shakes his head a little as if wondering at Rafael’s oddities, arms crossed.

  “Oh,” Rafael says, much too quiet and completely inadequate. “Thank you,” he adds hastily.

  “Uh, you’re welcome, for being a decent fucking human being,” Rich says. “Here, you’ve got two drawers, you can use the second one for your stuff. If you want I can get a lock from the quartermaster tomorrow, like, if there’s other guys that try and take your stuff.”

  “No, I don’t—need that, thank you, that won’t be necessary,” Rafael says. Who would try to steal things out from under Rich's nose? Suicides, fools, or madmen. “But thank you for the kind offer.”

  He opens the second drawer, hastily sweeps all his items in, then notices Rich’s face has gone tight and pained, disapproving, and recalls how Rich had appointed his room before Connor and Sol came and scuffled all over it. Not just neat as a military man might keep it, but intensely, significantly, compulsively clean.

  The urge to run, or hide, or curl up like a child and lie small and still in hopes of invisibility, springs up in Rafael’s chest at that look of disapproval, devouring as a wildfire. But he doesn’t have the luxury to entertain those pointless urges, and so instead he draws up the quiet and professional calm of an extra, a background part, a servant quietly fulfilling their appointed tasks with no concern for center stage. He lays his possessions neatly away, folds and stacks his clothes, and when he stands and dares to glance at Rich’s expression, he’s deeply relieved to find it smoothed and approving.

  “There you go, it’ll be safe there,” Rich says, and Rafael smiles automatically, pulling together the frayed scraps of his calm facade over the wretched, raw sense of exposure. Rich doesn’t turn away, though, doesn’t go back to his game and leave Rafael safely overlooked.

  “You look like you could use a rest,” he observes, and Rafael hesitates, unsure what role he should play, earnest denial or sheepish acquiescence. They have all night, but… only tonight. For all that Rich apparently won’t lay a hand on him without invitation, Rafael’s not sure how much longer Rich might care to wait for one.

  Unexpectedly, Sol speaks up: “Lay off Caro a minute and let’s go play some cards. Been a while since I kicked your oversized backside at poker.”

  “Yeah, because I actually won last time,” Rich says. “I’m great at poker now. No one will ever beat me at poker again.”

  “Aw, listen to the big boy talking tough!” Sol grins, and lays his hand on Rich’s massive, corded forearm. “You know I let you win, pal. You leave off scrubbing a hole in the floorboards, maybe I’ll let you win again.”

  “So gracious, signore!” Rich smiles, and drops a quick kiss to the crown of the man’s glossy hair. “Sure, fine, I think the little blue parlor down the hall’s secure this time of night.”

  To Rafael, as an aside, he says, “You can come along with us if you’d like to play, but if you wanna stay here and take it easy for a while, I get it.”

  Rafael licks his lips and ducks a nod. “I believe you’re right, I am somewhat in need of—” peace and quiet, a moment to myself, “rest. If you truly don’t mind.”

  “Course not,” Rich says easily, smiling at him, Sol’s arm looped through his own. “Take it easy. I’ll be back in a couple hours, and I’ll try not to wake you up, if you don’t want.”

  He pulls a pack of cards deftly from the end table, hands it off to Sol, then snatches the peach away from Connor with a triumphant noise as the three of them file out, and bites into it happily before the door closes behind them. As enormous as the man is, he moves shockingly quickly when he wants to, and with such lightness and precision that he seems to have flipped the rumpled carpet smooth as he passed over it.

  Rafael stands perfectly still where he was left, counting the seconds. Their footsteps move away, and don’t return for a minute, and then two, and then five, and Rafael finally breathes out and crosses back to the huge armchair in the corner, sinking gratefully down into it.

  The urge to shut himself off again is overwhelming. It would be so easy to sink into the cold fog inside him and let it overtake the panicky, fearful flutter of his heart, beating its way in pitiful circles around the inside of its cage like a bird with a broken wing. But to be complacent is dangerous now. Carraway forgot him, but Rich won’t, not in a single evening, and he’s unlikely to be charmed or compelled by a silent, drifting skeleton.

  Rafael was someone, once—charming, personable, beautiful, the center of attention in any room he chose to command. There must be some meager shade of that man left in him somewhere. He can find what compels Rich, play this new part he’s been unceremoniously shoved into.

  He shifts in his seat and then shivers as the change of position sends a hot ache up his spine, an echoing reminder of pleasure Rich granted earlier, never careless even after he’d gotten his own satisfaction. Rafael is shifting again before he can bring himself to stop, rocking a little in place, one hesitant hand seeking out his own thigh and rubbing slowly along it.

  The other boys said he was kind. And he’s been considerate so far, cautious. He hasn’t pushed. He hasn’t asked. He hasn’t even offered.

  You have all night to get acquainted.

  It’s been so long since anyone has touched Rafael kindly. By passing up this chance, he gains nothing and loses… he doesn’t yet know. But to have anything at all would be a step forward from the cold, desolate quiet he was lost in a scant few hours ago. Rafael stands, every movement slow and careful, and strips off his shirt.