It’s still night-time, the sky an inky, unfathomable blackness that stretches on and on forever. There’s a coldness to it I find myself at once soothed and deeply unnerved by. The sky lasts like little else does. It won’t fall down or be snatched away. People can poison it and dilute it and traverse it. But we can’t tame it. The sky is a feral thing, wild and free, the host and playground of storms.
The night is filled with the sounds of the city, muffled in the distance, familiar and comforting, like a lullaby I know every cadence of. Princess is quiet, but I can still hear him breathing. For a while, we lay there, inhaling and exhaling together, listening to the rhythm and beat of Danger. It pulses in tune with my heart.
Our hands lay inches apart on the mattress. I can feel the distance like it’s a physical thing. My fingers itch with the urge to reach for him.
I hold myself in check for as long as I can before giving it up and taking a risk. My fingers shift slightly to the side and brush against his.
There’s a slight hitch in his breathing and it cracks the tension between us in half.
He doesn’t flinch away from my hand, rather hooking his index finger around mine.
I turn my head to look at him just as he does the same. His beautiful face is cast half in shadow, adding an almost paranormal quality to him, like he’s a creature sent from the dark to enrapture any who cross his path, to lure and enthral them into willingly carving out their soul just so they can fall into shadows with him and be devoured by the whispered promise of oblivion.
“My name is Milo,” he tells me, and all I can do is smile back at him like it’s the best gift I’ve ever been given.
Milo
6yearslater
"Your boy is on fire tonight." Ben has to lean in close so I'm able to understand what he's saying above the excited shouts of the crowd and the fast-paced chorus to one of Skyline's most well-known songs.
Ben is my boss at a bar called The Refuge, where I work as a bartender. The Refuge often holds underground concerts, and although very busy most nights, doesn't advertise itself in any other way than word of mouth. It is, unofficially, a queer bar. Most people who come here are regulars or friends of regulars.
Tonight, the bar is packed with a ravenous crush of Skyline fans. I watch as they jump around in thrall and scream lyrics at the top of their lungs alongside Skyline's lead singer.
On the other side of the room is a large stage, upon which the four members of Skyline play their music with raucous abandon. Standing at the front of the stage is my boyfriend, Ryan.
Ben is right, Ryan seems to be hyped up something extra tonight. He's covered in sweat, his usually chestnut brown hair made darker and messy. The tight white t-shirt he tugged on earlier is obscenely thin and wet to the point of being almost see-through. He sings to the crowd like he's trying to incite a riot, or inspire a revolution, to promote volatile freedom in all its forms. Ryan Knight is, whether he'd ever admit to it or not, truly chaos incarnate.
I lean forward on the bar top, blatantly staring at Ryan as he belts out lyrics into a microphone and moves his calloused fingers expertly over the chords of his guitar. No matter how often I've seen him play, I find myself utterly incapable of tearing my gaze away from him every time he takes to a stage.
Ryan has always been unfairly gorgeous. He was when we met six years ago, although I didn't let myself see it then. I didn't let myself acknowledge how I felt about him inside my head, let alone out loud, for a long time. But Ryan was patient with me. He never wavered in his confidence that I would one day admit to loving him. Ryan isn't exactly an arrogant man, but he is steadfast. He believes in things, and people, possibly to his detriment at times.
He was attractive as a boy, but since growing into himself over the last couple of years he's morphed into something else altogether. Tall and broad across the chest, arms and legs thick with muscle. A beard the same chestnut brown as his hair half-covering a face that has become more handsome, jaw defined and mouth the perfect bow. One thing that hasn’t changed is his pale eyes, sometimes blue and sometimes grey depending on the light.
But as stunning as he is on a normal day, he seems to come alive in a whole new way when he’s performing. He transforms into something magnetic and ethereal, a legend chiselled from reality. When he plays, he becomes a storm. Lightning, a searing streak of white-hot plasma. Heat that claws across a starless night sky, cutting through the black and fracturing it like cracked glass. Thunder, a sonic wave of sound vibrating through our eardrums like the roar of a tiger, striking a chord that could be fear or could be excitement, but either way its immense.
"Ok, seriously, you want me to get you a bib for all that drool?" Ben jibes, laughter in his voice.
I strike out with my elbow, catching him in the ribs. He makes a loud whuffing noise and thwacks me over the head with a bar-rag in retaliation.
"That was rude," he grouses. "I am your boss. You can't hit me. I could, like, fire you or whatever. Get HR all turned on about printing off some multicolored forms with size 8 font. You know they go hard for that shit."
I turn my head reluctantly, still looking out at Ryan from the corner of one eye, and glance up at Ben. I have to crane my neck a bit since Ben is a lot taller than me, although that's partially helped by the chunky high-heeled boots he's wearing beneath a long leather skirt and black mesh tank top. Ben frowns down at me with dark eyes. He's a handsome man, with skin a lovely dark brown and hair twisted into long braids decorated using silver beads that match the sparkly silver of his nail polish.
On his t-shirt, he wears a badge that reads 'He/him'. I've got a matching one attached to my tight black t-shirt, which showcases my slim twink-like physique, along with my equally tight leather shorts. Thankfully I was spared the high-heels, permitted to wear combat boots instead.
I'm not usually a fan of fitted clothing, preferring baggy jeans and too-big jumpers that Ryan always jokes I could get lost in if I wanted to. But Ben insisted I had to look the part of slutty bartender pretty boy, and I indulged him. To be fair, it does get me more tips, so I can't complain too much. I mean, I do complain a lot, but that's more to give Ben grief than anything else.
"You wouldn't fire me." I scoff. "Sid would kick your arse. I'm the only employee apart from them you've been able to keep hold of."
Ben makes a face at the mention of my fellow bartender, Sid. They've been working here practically since the bar opened and get very frustrated with having to re-train new people all the time because Ben keeps driving away every single employee by sleeping with them and then breaking their hearts. Ben has a weakness for pretty boys. I'm sure Sid only let Ben hire me because they knew I was hopelessly infatuated with my boyfriend and would therefore be immune to Ben's unsubtle seductions.
"Plus," Ben muses with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I wouldn't want Knight to beat me up for being mean to his little princess."
I roll my eyes at his dramatics, although he's not entirely wrong. Ryan is very protective of me. He can be jealous and possessive sometimes too, but I'd say I'm a lot worse on both counts. Ryan gets loads of attention, and I am not above cutting a bitch, especially when said bitch is trying to grab my boyfriend's dick without his permission. We do not stand for that shit in this house.
"Hey!" I kick at Ben's ankle. "Only Ryan gets to call me that."
