by May Peterson
I propped myself against the sofa with an elbow, our gazes level. “But she isn’t alone. She has Gino. She was an adult when you were a child, and could forge all the bonds she needed without having to rely on you to be her only companion. It wasn’t your responsibility to be strong for your parents, it was theirs to be strong for you.”
This tasted complexly bitter in my mouth, because as soon as the words left my tongue, I realized how little I truly believed it. It was my responsibility to be strong for my parents. I was the Honored Child. It was my responsibility to be strong for everyone. How could I deny that charge of birth? Hadn’t I wanted to spare my mother what I hadn’t been able to avoid myself?
Tibario smiled, sad and enormous and full of wry regret. “Maybe you’re right. But one way or the other, I don’t know if I have ever been strong for anyone, duty or no. I think... I am not fully a person, Violetta. Not my own person. I’m not sure I know how to be. I’ve always been the shape that was necessary. Just like I might change from man to cat, I change from son to brother to spymaster to soldier, from shadow to flesh and shadow again. I don’t know if I learned to be my own self, standing on my own. I imagined coming back to you one last time before I died. You asked me to stay, but you never forced me. I only seem to stay when I have to. When I am taking the shape someone needs from me. You are right to fear that I would have left you in the end. You have tried very hard not to need me.”
God, that hurt. I had wanted certainty. And if I couldn’t be certain of a thing, I wanted not to need it. To not risk it.
With mere weeks left on the clock, I was suddenly—hungrily—willing to take the chance.
I touched my brow to his, as if we might share thoughts. “I don’t care,” I breathed. “Be a shadow. We’ll play our roles, if that’s all we’re capable of doing. But I want you with me up to the end.”
His heartbeat was so strong it felt like he was vibrating. The tips of his fingers were pleasantly cool against my cheek, his hand running over my face and cupping my ear and the nape of my neck. I was trembling too. God, how he could make me tremble. It frightened me, gave me the sense of lacking skin. But here in the safety of the sacred dark, I wanted him to see my soft insides. I nuzzled his palm, resisted the alarming urge to suck one of his fingers into my mouth.
“Would it be all right,” he said, slowly, as if counting each word, “if I kissed you, my beautiful girl?”
My breaths were streaking out of me so fast and loud now that it was embarrassing. It was too much, and not enough. Heat burned my face, the fierceness of my blush no doubt throbbing against his skin. “I think.” My gulp was audible. “That would be all right.”
He was still for the next stretch of moments, as if giving me time to change my mind. Then it was like the earth and sky shifted. His lips delicately touched mine, body heat trading through the contact like a magic seal.
Once I opened to him, it was like I couldn’t keep him out. Hunger and fear warred in me, making me tremor but crave his touch. Our tongues tangled hotly, his fingers were in my hair. I clasped his chest, hearing my own breaths quiver. He grasped my waist, smoothing down my tresses, as if our bodies were blurring together. His miraculous, living-again heartbeat pulsed in tune with mine.
One hand cupped my hip, the other caressing my chest. My smooth, flat chest, my shoulders narrower than his. What would he think of that flat chest? My slim hips? Was it what he wanted? His touch danced over all of it; it was immense and electric and, suddenly, too much.
I abruptly went rigid, the omnipresence of his hands and mouth now startling. I pulled back, but he must have interpreted it as simply me resettling, because he rose to lock the kiss together again. Without thinking, I shoved him back, just enough for us both to thump into the back of the sofa. Shock expanded in his eyes. I crossed an arm over my chest, suddenly gasping, trying to contain the heart and shame and disappointment pounding in me.
Tibario withdrew. “Vi. Did I hurt you? I—”
“No, no.” I winced, nervously trying to soften my reaction. “I just, ah, overreacted I think. All of a sudden I felt panicky. It’s not anything to worry about.” A deep breath. There, take one more deep breath. “I’ve tried to unlearn this. I still get jumpy when it gets...intense. I’m sorry.”
I offered a shaking hand. When he took it, the quality of touch was back to his former gingerness, like handling a very breakable thing. Which, it seemed, I was. He planted a light kiss on my fingertips. “Oh, Vi. No, you don’t have to be sorry. I’m the one who should apologize. Do you want me to leave? I won’t be offended, whatever you need.”
A sigh rippled through me. It had been going in exactly the direction I wanted, and still came the terror—the terror that poisoned my life. “I don’t know what I need. I can work through it, I have before. I’m afraid I am not the most pliable lover.”
That was another sore spot. Supposedly what proved one was really meant to be a mollyqueen was being sexually malleable, submissive and compliant. Anything less apparently signaled at least a trace of lingering manhood, a sign that one should have stayed a boy after all. It was one thing to face this panic each time, and quite another to know how bad it made me look to not eagerly melt into a lover’s will. Maybe I could deal with the anxiety. I couldn’t face the shame that I was defective for it.
Tibario’s frown was heavy. I was still trembling. He stroked the back of my hand, kissing the fingers again occasionally and making soothing noises. “I gather I just learned a great deal about what your previous lovers have been like. Putting their pleasure over your comfort. I don’t want to put you through that.” He paused, seeming to consider my fingers as he fondled them. “But I am beginning to grasp your conundrum. Either you grin and bear it, or you have to go without touch. Must be hard to heal, if those are the options.”
The simplicity of that insight shocked me. I had never quite put it into words like that. “Thank you for understanding that. I don’t know if I understood it myself for years.” Quiet curled around me for a moment. “I’m not sure healing is on the table at all, now. There isn’t time. Time is drying up as we speak. Maybe all that’s left on the table is...comfort.”
His frown was turning upward, becoming an uneven grin. Affection and commiseration arose from him like mist. “I have an idea that might comfort you.”
“Oh?”
“You can say no. But one way to make touch less threatening is for you to be in control of it.”
What a queerly novel thought. “Like giving instructions?” The idea rubbed up against my embarrassment that he’d think me manly in bed, that I could never quite get away from this specter of the mollyqueen monster we all had to disprove with our every breath.
“There’s a game, shall we say, that I like.” Now he was nuzzling me gently, little moments of touch that had no pressure to them, like reminders he was still there. “These are the rules of the game. One person will relax while the other touches them, but whoever’s being touched guides it. Says what they like, what they want more of, less of. Then the game changes, and instead, the toucher decides how to touch, doing what feels good, and the touchee simply says if they don’t like something. That way it can be about the pleasure of being touched, and then the pleasure of touching.”
Such a simple exercise he described, savoring the point of sensation. But picturing it in my mind sent an intense thrill through me. “And we take turns?”
He smiled like an excited student about to be off for break. “I think you should be the guiding partner both times. You direct me touching you, so it’s always about what feels good for you. Then, you touch me, and I won’t guide it except to say if something feels bad.”
Curious. “That seems selfish, though. What about your pleasure?”
“I’m not the one who’s hurt about this. Besides.” The glint of his fangs was impish. “I would absolutely be taking quite a bit of pleasure from you d
irecting me.”
An ambiguous spark lit in my belly. After a moment, I sighed, tension leaving my body. “This sounds easy to be game for.” I counted a few breaths, leaning back into the sofa. “Shall I wait for you to begin?”
He considered me for what felt like an eon, one hand fondling my wrist. His gaze explored my chest, my collar, the lines of my gown. As if he was considering how to safely approach. Then, with that same reverent lightness, the back of his finger stroked the curve of my neck.
I gasped slightly, the feeling much like the pleasant shock of a cool breeze in one’s hair. I said nothing, allowed his gaze to find my eyes. We could do this. Kissing him had felt right. The closeness of his body, his scent and weight and the rumble of his voice, none of them felt like threats.
Moments passed in which neither of us moved, all energy concentrated into the eye contact. Then, without thought, I spoke. “Will you undress me?”
His nod was slow, shaking. I only then caught how his hands trembled, slightly clumsy at the clasp of my collar. The gown wrapped around my middle, with buttons down one side, closing under my décolleté. His fingertips were faintly callused, like any might if they worked keys and knives and forgeries like his did, his delicate thief’s cunning able to bear him through a thousand secret places. I wanted him to unlock me. I wanted him to want to unlock me, because the world would be a little less if he never got in.
I wanted to unlock him, too.
Tibario was steadying, whispering cool breaths on my skin. One side of the gown loosened, and he slipped it down my shoulder, exposing freckled skin and the expanse of my chest. His lips fell on my shoulder, rain and fire and snow, kissing with surprising force. I gave back a grumble of pleasure, leaning into it. His hand swept down my collarbone, brushed my nipple.
“Stop,” I said, panting. “Just a moment.”
He obeyed without a word, fingers withdrawing, but his lips ghosting over my shoulder still. He was still here, just waiting for me. After a few breaths, the panic did not come. I knew I could stop it at any time, and he would not flee or scowl or roll his eyes. He would not hit me. He would not hate me.
Very clever boy indeed, with his games.
The relief was so deep, I spoke into it like a well, secure I would not be overheard. “I’m afraid,” I said. “Of what you’ll see. I don’t have breasts. I don’t have the curves you might want. I don’t have a cunt. I used to think...if you would desire me at all, it would be as a boy. But I can’t be that either. So I’m not sure what you see. What you want.”
Here I was, a seer, with a clearer path to certainty than anyone else on earth. Yet I always, always longed to be sure, and never was.
His brows drew up, eyes bright as silver plates. It was as if my fear stunned him, and it was moments before he answered. “I obviously used to think you were a boy. You were the first person I felt attraction to. I spent years afraid someone would find out I wanted my friend that way. It’s not hard to know what’d be said: unmanly, uncouth, perverse. But I kept imagining, over and over, that if I had to explain that I loved a boy to whatever spirit or god that would demand it...maybe all I’d need do was point to you. And say, can you truly blame me for wanting a friend like this?”
I looked intently down, a flush licking up my face like flames. “Now I know you must be flattering me.” I had no idea how to accept a sentiment like that.
“Well.” He cleared his throat, perhaps as embarrassed as I was. “Years later I fell head over heels for another girl, one who played under Mio’s music tutor. She came to our house sometimes to practice with him. I thought I was in love with her for months, enough to eventually ask her on an evening out. We had a delightful time, but afterward?” The sound he made was halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Not even a kiss. She said it’d been lovely, but obviously there wasn’t a spark there.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Didn’t know for years. She was perfectly good company. But when I look back and wonder why I felt so infatuated, I think of how she had such a charmingly shy smile, and she’d scratch her head and giggle when she was nervous, and she had lovely bright ginger curls. Was tall for a girl our age, had sweet freckles, she was witty, and warm, but also skittish.” He sighed against my shoulder. “In other words, she reminded me of you. So much she probably spotted that I was pining, just not for her.”
I couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Sharp girl. Did she tell you that?”
“No. It wasn’t until I thought of all the girls, and boys, I’d ever been keen on. Pattern was easy to spot then: sweet gingers with anxious laughs and who blushed at the drop of a hat. I have, as they say, a type.”
I was proving his point right now, with the way my skin was radiating heat. I covered my face. “I am almost too abashed on your behalf to hear this.”
“I know.” He took my hand, gently pulled down my cover, looked into my no doubt beet-red face. “I like watching you blush. I like your nervous little smile. I like how you look. I like how you sound. You asked if I want a girl or a boy, but I never considered it that way. I’m not looking for in you what I enjoy about men, or women. I look for in others the things I enjoy in you. My dear friend, who I thought I would never be allowed to be in love with.”
Tibario was far too good at peeling me open this way, somehow touching every tender region inside with the brush of his want. Would I ever stop feeling so exposed to him?
“Also—what on earth is wrong with a girl with a flat chest?” he breathed. “This is against the rules, but I would very much like to put my mouth on your pretty little nipples.”
Dragon in the fucking Deep, I was about to melt out of my skin. Shaking, panting, I nodded. Tibario’s mouth curved wickedly, and then closed around my bared right nipple.
The sensation tore through me like a current, surging down to my groin and up into my face. A sound came with it, an embarrassing, vulnerable sound like a gasp or a squeal. Nothing had any right to feel as good as that did. Tibario’s tongue was rough, hot, and it lapped at the sensitive bud like he was going to burn me down. I whined again, arcing involuntarily into his damp mouth. It felt so good it hurt. Then his thumb flicked my left nipple, and the sound rose into a moan.
I’d fantasized many times about sex with Tibario. My fantasies usually did not have me in them. I didn’t like picturing myself. But I had imagined myself with a cunt and what it might feel like for him to tongue it; imagined myself with a dick and him fondling it with eagerness while he fucked me. Sex in real life usually was vaguely dissatisfying if it wasn’t traumatic. It would be too much, too hard, too much pressure. But I could conjure any ideal sensation I wanted, when I had the power to decide how it’d go.
None of those fantasies had prepared me for this. For how orgasmic it would feel for him to simply taste my nipple, while willing at any time to stop.
The last part was something I’d only ever had in fantasies. So I used it.
“Stop,” I gasped. “Stop. Just for a minute.”
His lips withdrew without question; they shone appealingly, slightly swollen, from contact on my skin. Fuck me, that was hot. His fingers rested over my ribs, but he did nothing to stimulate me further. “Mm.” Delight played in his dimpled expression. “I am amazed at how gorgeously sensitive you are. That all sounded like a ‘keep going,’ so I’m glad you said otherwise. Even if it feels good, you don’t have to do it.”
Yes. I was slowly beginning to grasp that wisdom. But I had another problem. I’d stiffened up in my pants, and while that far from ruined the night, I had a decision to make. “I also...was starting to feel close.”
“Good God.” He growled.
“Look.” I shifted, trying to not be obvious in adjusting the bottom of my gown. “This part is awkward. When I’m by myself, I don’t mind what I have, uh, to work with. I can enjoy arousal just fine. But when I’m with another person... I don’t like
it being looked at. Or touched. Not right away. I have to ease into it. Is that all right?”
His growl mutated into something more like a purr. “Absolutely. Do you want me to keep going?”
Coming off in my pants with Tibario touching me would be a far from unpleasant way to round out the evening. But I wanted more.
“Help me take my gown off.”
My sense of exposure only expanded as he peeled it off me, undoing the rest of the buttons, and sliding it free in a shuffle of satin. Now, though, the exposure was erotic, flowing from too intense to almost villainously satisfying. It felt like a dream, being this unvarnished and this close with my best friend. His touch drew starts from me as they grazed my sides, my belly, my thighs. My breath shook, my awareness radiating out into my body, into how flushed and hard my nipples were, how sensuous the plush of the sofa felt against my back. Only the lace pants I wore remained, those and the thin stockings covering my legs. The sight of the gown puddled in a discarded pool of satin at my feet was surreally arousing.
Tibario curled around my half-naked body, eyes crawling over new territory. “I am fucking blessed by every god tonight. Why did I never think to picture you in lace before?”
I quite literally squirmed with mixed delight and embarrassment, arms half covering the expanse I’d just allowed him to see. “You are a very wicked cat.” He nuzzled me again, drawing an involuntarily whimper of pleasure. “Probably loving every second of how red I’m turning.”
His purring said he had no intention of denying that. “All the way down your body, it looks like.” Wicked as he was, he still barely touched me. In abiding by the rules, he could be as devious a tease as he liked and not make me regret it.
Our gazes tangled with each other again, the eye contact once more a steadying force. Through a haze of ragged breaths, I finally said, “Now I want to undress you, wicked cat.”
He all but licked his lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The next few minutes felt a tad absurd. Tibario adopted his best good-boy pose, neat and still with arms slightly outstretched, chin raised so I could easily shuck off his coverings. He closed both eyes and smiled pleasantly, as if obeying a medical examiner, but one eye kept peeping open to sparkle at me. I mechanically opened his jacket, asked him to sit up so I could strip it off, and began on his buttons and belt. It all seemed silly, like I’d taken a wrong turn into something far more dry and impersonal than I’d hoped, until that tight shirt popped open and a stretch of tan skin was on display.