Baz holds me fast. He moves his body in a wave against mine, moves against me like a serpent. “Just kiss me,” he says between kisses. “Mmm,” he mmms between breaths.
Is this what people do? At night? In the dark?
I was never magic.
I hitch my knee higher on his hip. He pushes his palm down my back. I wrap my tail around his forearm, and I’m gentle. He isn’t. And I am.
“Kiss me,” he says.
I kiss him.
“Please,” he says.
“Baz, don’t—”
“Please . . .”
“I will.” I do.
He doesn’t have to beg. He never has to beg. I’ll give him whatever he wants. Can’t he see that, here in the dark—that I’ll give him whatever he wants? My hand is gentle on his scalp, gentle on his throat. I couldn’t break him if I tried. I won’t try.
“Baz.” I kiss him. “You can have whatever you want.”
“I want to always be here.”
“I want that, too. I love you.”
He’s moving against me in waves. I hitch my knee higher. He’s wearing pyjamas. I’m wearing boxers. We’re both hard. I’m being gentle, he isn’t. I was never magic. He was human once. My fingers clench in his hair—
“Simon,” he says, and it isn’t good.
I let go.
“Simon . . .” he says. That’s better.
My wings spread out of their own volition.
Baz. Like a wave, against me. Like a serpent moving through the sand. (The Humdrum sent a three-headed snake once—I chopped all three of them off.) I hold Baz’s face in both my hands. Like he’s made of glass. Like he’d break. He won’t. I kiss him. And it’s cool. I kiss him like he’s cold water, and I’m drinking.
He wraps his palm around the base of my tail. He holds me by the neck. He rocks and rocks and rocks into me.
“Baz . . .”
“Please, Simon.”
“You don’t have to . . .”
Is this, is this, is this what people do?
Is this what he wants? Is this what I’m allowed to take?
He’s rocking into me, and I need this to happen again someday in the light. I don’t know what Baz’s face looks like, like this, when he’s coming undone. And I can’t keep my eyes open anyway, when I’m coming against him.
Is this, is this, is this . . .
Is this magic?
Is this enough?
