“You’ll get used to it.”
They were silent for a while. Thomas had no awareness of moving, and he certainly did not see Micha do so, but, somehow, their bodies slipped together. His head found Micha’s shoulder. Their legs became entangled, their hands intertwined.
“How long have you known?” asked Thomas.
“You mean about me or about you?”
“Both.”
“You, awhile now. Me, forever. Since I was eighteen at least.”
“Since you were eighteen. My word, that is forever.”
“I wish people would stop teasing me about my age. It’s not funny.”
“Do you know . . . I mean . . . are there . . . many . . .” Thomas made an uncertain gesture.
“Buggers?” offered Micha. “Mandrakes? Sodomites? Nancies? Perverts?”
“Men who love men.”
“Plenty.”
“How wonderful.”
Micha sneered. “Why, do you want to fuck them too?”
“No, of course not. I just find it comforting to know they’re there.”
“Oh yes, you and your lonely universe.”
“Mock all you wish.” Thomas smiled dreamily and found himself unexpectedly rewarded by a trace of warmth in Micha’s eyes. “I am too happy to mind.”
“If you ask me, the universe is a bit too bloody crowded.”
Thomas tucked his head beneath Micha’s chin, his gaze drifting over his shoulder to the wood that seemed to him, now, an enchanted place. “Not here.”
“No,” agreed Micha, “not here.”
Thomas closed his eyes, letting physical languor and the warmth of Micha pressed against him lull him into a drifting state that was not quite sleep.
“Micha,” he murmured, minutes, years, or lifetimes later, “can I ask you something?”
Micha’s eyes fluttered open. This close to him, Thomas could see greenish flecks floating deep in his irises. “You seem hell-bent on it.”
“Do you remember when you were ill, and you told me that my dreams were terrible?”
“I remember.”
“You never did tell me yours.”
Micha was silent. His body tensed against Thomas. “I don’t have any.”
“But you must have once.”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
