by JD Ruskin
He trailed off without finishing, which was good because the only way Arthur could finish that sentence was “incredibly frustrated” and that was answering for himself, not for Bertie.
“So humans can help dragons too.” Arthur kept his palm flat for a moment and then ran it slowly down Bertie’s spine, feeling every shiver and thinking he’d like to make it better. He thought of the other day and wishing Bertie would climb over him to keep him warm but only wet his mouth without voicing that particular thought. “It’s not all a dragon’s wise guidance on us poor, helpless people, I mean.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course they can.” Bertie pushed against his hand, urging it lower for another scratch. “Did you think it wasn’t mutually beneficial? That we got nothing out of it?”
“What did you get?” Arthur wasn’t sure if they were talking about ancient or modern dragons. He wasn’t sure if Bertie was either.
“Beauty. Music. Stories. Jewelry. Art.” He tightened the hand on Arthur’s knee and then moved it, stroking Arthur gently, petting him without seeming aware that he was following Arthur’s motions. “Someone to listen, to make our own, someone to spoil, someone to protect. Sex,” he went on dreamily, making Arthur twitch. “Companionship. A treasure never to be shared. We got the best of it, if you ask me. It wasn’t all kidnapping virgins, you know, not that that doesn’t hold a certain appeal.”
“What does that mean?”
“What it sounds like. Scritch me again please, pet.” For a proud, if small, dragon of ancient lineage, Bertie didn’t seem to mind begging. Arthur kept his eyes tightly shut but scritched as he was told, scratching gently over and over again until Bertie’s shivers finally stopped.
“I…. My mother used to do this for me when I didn’t feel well.” Arthur said it to distract himself from his burning skin and hard dick. “She hadn’t for years, I was in college when she, when they, when my parents died, but yeah, she used to do this. It always made me feel better.”
This wasn’t the same thing at all, actually, but Arthur wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. He was grateful that the same could be said for Bertie, who seemed ready to fall asleep until he spoke.
“I am very sorry for your loss, Arthur.” His fingers momentarily curled around Arthur’s knee and squeezed before letting go. His hand smoothed down over Arthur’s jeans again in the next second. Arthur’s eyes started to sting, but he blinked back the tears.
“I had no idea.” Bertie whispered mournfully. “You and your sister must miss them terribly.”
Arthur sucked in a shaky breath but still couldn’t speak. No one but Kate had mentioned his parents to him in years. He hadn’t told anyone at school, and he’d lost contact with the extended family. He’d never thought of what he’d have to say when confronted with warm, sincere concern.
“We do,” he managed at last and blinked back the tears. Sometimes he wondered if the freak car accident that killed them was the reason Kate had done the stupid, reckless things she’d done in cars while high or drunk, but so far he hadn’t asked her.
“Would you like to talk about them?” Bertie called him from his dark thoughts. “Share more happy memories? I don’t mind. I’d love to hear more.”
“More?” Arthur’s mind spun for a moment, and then he said the first thing that came to mind without thinking about why. “They were kind of rebellious hippies despite having boring, traditional day jobs. They didn’t get married until Kate was four. We were both in their wedding.” He had the pictures packed away in a shoebox.
“Dragons rarely marry. They think it’s a useless and purely symbolic human ceremony, but I can imagine that to make that sort of commitment meant they truly loved each other.” Bertie’s breath was hot and calming for all that Arthur burned where they touched. He exhaled loudly and Bertie patted him again. “It sounds lovely, Arthur. Your family, your parents, their love story. Tell me more, if you don’t mind.”
“We’re….” Arthur’s throat tightened with the urge to cry, something he decided to blame on being exhausted from the flu and working two jobs, though he knew it was that the room was so warm and Bertie’s voice was so soft and understanding. He’d never been able to talk to anyone about those kinds of memories, not even Kate, not when she’d reacted by disappearing into vodka. “We’re supposed to be working.”
“Arthur.” The hand petting his knee stopped, a heavy, steady weight. “Haven’t I taught you yet that everything is connected?”
“This will help you understand a lost race of dragon?” Arthur had to clear his throat to ask. Bertie nodded.
“Yes, Arthur, yes it will. It will help me understand many things,” he answered earnestly then stretched against Arthur to remind him to keep rubbing his back. Arthur frowned, uncertain, but licked his lips and felt forgotten words rising up even before Bertie went on, quiet and encouraging and impossibly content.
“Tell me a story, Arthur love. Stay and tell me a story.”
DRAGONS, ARTHUR had discovered, were fond of stories in all forms: myths and anecdotes, TV shows and movies, songs and history books. There was a long history of dragons either telling stories or demanding that humans entertain them with songs and tales in some sort of exchange of information.
At least, that’s what Arthur decided to call it after he finally found a book on dragons to explore. It was another book written by humans, and written in the fifties to boot, but its intention hadn’t been to frighten people, and Arthur found that encouraging. In fact, when he spotted it in Bertie’s study and dragged it over with his foot while Bertie slipped in and out of a dreamy, fitful sleep, he thought it was one of Bertie’s because of its intriguing title, The Dragons of Mankind.
He considered what Bertie told him during one of their early meetings, that dragons collected things with eternity in mind, while he scanned through the glossy black-and-white photos and lithographs that filled the book, and saw picture after picture of dragons sitting atop piles of jewels and gold with tiny humans wrapped in their coils. The artists’ depictions of what an encounter with a dragon could be like dated far back into the Middle Ages and featured more European-looking dragons and beautiful, brave humans with musical instruments in their hands or with their mouths open as if reciting a story. Some of the drawings were clearly sexually charged—tightly bound, beautiful youths laid out before panting dragons, with the imagery of fire all around them.
The artwork from Asia that the author had used in the book didn’t show dragons with humans much, but then that artwork tended to show the dragons as powerful and god-like as they guarded rivers or chased after pearls. Those haughty, commanding dragons probably wouldn’t have needed to kidnap anyone. There probably would have been volunteers lining up to spend time with them. Arthur wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have been among them if he’d been alive back then and living somewhere under the control of a dragon king. They were definitely known for their generosity, more so than the human emperors who eventually grew jealous of their power and imprisoned them. It would have been an honor to serve creatures like that.
Arthur wasn’t even entirely certain that he wouldn’t have done the same with a European dragon. He’d noticed in the stories about them that the author of the book had dutifully recounted that there were plenty of knights and maidens who chose to go to the dragons. The explanation in the stories was always that they did it to save their people from the dragon’s wrath but the author, and Arthur, had still wondered.
The stories were only written down or drawn decades, sometimes centuries later. More than that, the power of the dragons was evident in every flexing muscle and curling bit of flame. Power had always been an aphrodisiac and always would be. Even if it wasn’t, there was still something alluring in every strange, sinuous body.
Arthur had stopped reading the book when he found himself tracing the drawings and photos of artifacts with his fingertips and becoming even more aware of Bertie’s head on his thigh. He’d taken the book home to read without the risk of
Bertie catching him and then spent the next few days flushed and avoiding Bertie’s eyes.
The fact that he had to read it alone as if it was porn was embarrassing, but not embarrassing enough to keep him from finishing those romantic stories in one night. He added to his list that night too, writing that dragons liked back rubs and stories about devotion before waking up flushed and panicked and deleting both entries.
He couldn’t help but wonder if those stories were the ones that Bertie found so romantic, the way he’d said before. Kidnapping people didn’t sound romantic, but then, even the artists who tried to depict dragon encounters as monstrous hadn’t quite managed to. The pictures made it seem incredible, awesome in the strictest sense. In any culture, the humans who had been around dragons and survived were considered fortunate, if not blessed.
That those same humans then chose to kill the dragons and glorify themselves for it made no sense, not that Arthur could tell. The explanation the author had gone for, that in order to prove themselves masters of the world they lived in, the humans felt the need to conquer all of it, made Arthur think of the Romans, though he couldn’t exactly say why. He did read the stories from Asia of warriors and nobles who slew dragon kings to gain their power; he read them until they made him feel sick and he finally skipped ahead to another chapter.
He had nightmares that night about long, black dragons cut into pieces, like elephants harvested for ivory, and woke up sweating and tense. After a few days of distracted thinking, he’d come to the realization that stories about dragon slaying appeared most when cultures or dynasties or countries were on the rise and needed to assert their strength and power. The author hadn’t come to that conclusion, but it seemed obvious to Arthur. So obvious that he hurried into work even earlier than usual to ask Bertie about it.
He also wanted to slip the book back into the collection without Bertie seeing because somehow he knew he would blush if Bertie saw him with it. But he did that and straightened some more and emptied ashtrays, and still there was no sign of Bertie.
The house wasn’t cold, though the warmth Arthur felt when he walked through the door slowly faded as Arthur passed the hours cleaning up the study and glancing alternately at the clock in the kitchen and the one up the stairs, hoping that Bertie was just sleeping late.
The first time he shivered from the cold, he accepted the fact that Bertie wasn’t home, but no matter where he poked around, he couldn’t find any of Bertie’s usual scribbled notes to him explaining where he was or when he’d be back. There wasn’t even one instructing Arthur on what to do.
He did find the temperature controls, which were on and set to low and which included air conditioning. That would be good for the summer if Arthur was around then. Bertie’s presence would make the house stifling on hot days.
Arthur turned up the heat while he dusted Bertie’s study and checked his cell in case he’d missed a call somehow, then gave up and went to the kitchen to make himself some tea. Tea was starting to grow on him, though he still preferred a strong cup of coffee, thick with cream and sugar.
He finally found a note from Bertie in a used teacup by the sink, smeared with water and almost unreadable. All it said—that he could make out—was “Precious” and “I’ll be out today.”
Arthur opened his mouth while he stared at it, full of questions that he had no one to ask. Bertie was gone for who knew how long, and anyway, the time had long passed for Arthur to object to being called pet names. He really should have put a stop to things before Bertie fell asleep on Arthur’s knee, seemingly unaware of Arthur’s hard-on, and he definitely should have said something in the days afterward while he’d been watching Bertie’s skin go back to its normal color.
Maybe he would have if Bertie had gone back to his usual flirtatious ways, but he hadn’t. Instead, once he woke up for real, he sat up and tried to work, tossing out the names of books Arthur should find for him—including some Arthur would have to get at the university library—and then getting up to find a flash drive with some new sections on it for Arthur to go over.
If Bertie had wanted to keep Arthur busy while he recuperated, he’d succeeded, not that he’d seemed happy about it.
Arthur frowned over his sweet, milky tea and went back into Bertie’s study to sit on his pillowy couch and consider. Actually that “precious” was the first pet name Bertie had called him in several days. Ever since he’d been sick in fact. Arthur hadn’t really noticed until now, probably because even the way Bertie said “Arthur” with that rumbling voice and posh accent was enough to make him warm.
He went back to his list of dragon facts, typing in “disease-resistant” and then pointedly re-adding “They like stories of all kinds” but wasn’t sure about the pet names and so left them off. He also forewent mentioning the back rub again, though the memory was sharp and fresh, as if it had just happened. If that wasn’t a dragon thing, if that was a Bertie thing, then like the nicknames, it had to mean something, and Arthur couldn’t think of a way to ask that wouldn’t give too much away.
Maybe he should be grateful Bertie had kept him busy while maintaining his distance. He definitely saved Arthur from himself.
Unless… Arthur had the horrifying thought that Bertie had been aware of Arthur’s hard-on after all and stopped flirting with him to spare Arthur’s feelings.
It was something Arthur couldn’t think about. If he did, he’d succumb to the humiliation and never return to work, and he loved this job. He should just get on with his work, pretend it never happened, and act calm whenever Bertie was around, if he even could.
Of course, he’d need Bertie around to do that, but that was okay. He could spend the hours while Bertie was away thinking of ways to avoid Bertie when Bertie was with him, and then when Bertie reappeared, Arthur wouldn’t act as stupid and obvious as he must have been acting, and things could go back to the way they were.
But Arthur’s feelings for Bertie must have been very obvious since their time on Bertie’s couch, because Arthur waited for hours, finally giving in and eating lunch alone, and then a few more hours, until there was no sign of Bertie and no word from him and it was either leave and get across town before rush hour started and things got more dangerous, or wait another few hours.
Since he didn’t want to think about what he’d look like, staying late in Bertie’s cold, empty house waiting for Bertie to come back, he finally cleaned up his notes, did the dishes from his lunch, and then turned the heat back down before he forced himself out the door.
IT HADN’T been completely dark when he left, but it was late enough that Arthur assumed Bertie finally came home shortly after he left. Seeing that Bertie hadn’t turned off the alarm Arthur set last night made him stop halfway in the door and look up, as if he could see upstairs into Bertie’s bedroom.
The beep of the alarm system and his own shivers from the cold both in and outside of the house finally spurred him forward. The chill told him Bertie wasn’t home, that he probably hadn’t come home at all, but Arthur looked around for him anyway before turning up the heat and then falling onto the couch to glare at the dead, empty fireplace.
He knew where the logs were—outside, underneath the covered walkway that led to the garage—and went to get some to give himself something to do. Once they were in the fireplace, it took him forever to find a way to get a fire going. Bertie didn’t believe in matches—not that Arthur could fault him for that if he didn’t need them—but Arthur had to use an antique cigarette lighter from the study and some old National Geographics to finally get his fire lit.
It didn’t roar and it didn’t blaze the way Bertie’s fire did, but it let Arthur smile a little. He wasn’t quite out of his mind enough yet to light up an herbal cigarette for the smell, but he did open the silver dish to count the remaining cigarettes and make a mental note to head out to the herbalist again soon so Bertie could roll up and restock his supply.
Groceries had been delivered again a few days before by Ravi, who turned o
ut to be a chubby, short man with the kind of sunny smile that Arthur had to return. There was plenty of food in the house. Arthur made a new grocery list anyway and stuck it on the fridge, including instant coffee just because, then gave up on waiting for the front door to open and made himself some tea before heading into the room next to the study. Whatever the room’s original purpose—Arthur suspected a sitting room or a morning room because of the position of the high ceiling and tall windows—Bertie had built in more shelves and used it to store his knickknacks. Or objets d’art. Or whatever they were. Probably more tarnished silver like the cigarette lighter that Arthur was going to give in and polish soon.
It might be a good activity for a day like today, a lot more soothing than hauling in all those dusty books and wiping them down before sorting them. Not that Arthur needed soothing, exactly; it was just that the organizing wasn’t having its usual effect on him. The dust was making him itchy and irritable all over again, and instead of being charmed by Bertie’s eclectic choices in reading material, he heard himself remarking on it, talking bitterly to himself the way he had during long overnight shifts by himself at the gas station.
“This is the third copy of The Prince and the Pauper I’ve found in here!” He was starting to think that whenever Bertie couldn’t find something he wanted, he went out and bought a new version. Thinking about that didn’t improve his mood.
He had Bertie’s cell phone number. Bertie might even have his cell phone on him, since Arthur hadn’t found it anywhere downstairs. Arthur could call him. The thought had occurred to him more than once. He didn’t, but only because Bertie probably didn’t want to be bothered. This distance was probably on purpose, some way to give Arthur time to get Bertie out of his head and accept that the flirting wasn’t personal. Arthur could accept that, he really could, if only disappearing hadn’t been the first thing his sister did after moving in with him following the death of their parents. She started going out and staying out later and later, until she’d finally been gone, and since she was over eighteen by then, there wasn’t anything Arthur could do about it.