by Noah Harris
But now Shaeffer wanted to know about Clara, the Clara Anaheim, the grand dame of Drake Street and the leader of his flight, the woman who rescued dragons in need, restarted their lives, giving them opportunities to use their powers and talents in a world not suited for dragons. She was hundreds of years old and the most powerful dragon known to the modern world, and Shaeffer wanted to know about her, of all people. Now that he thought about it, it made sense that Shaeffer would be interested in her; Konrad wasn’t even sure why Clara had been talking to him at the show. There was something going on here, and it made him want to be even more careful with the glittering treasure lounging on his couch.
“Clara is a big supporter of my art,” he began carefully, and Shaeffer nodded in satisfaction, adjusting slightly. “She tends to have a nose for people who need a bit of extra help, whatever that may be. I was struggling to pay for my shows, get exposure, but she saw something in my work and sponsors me, now.” He hoped that was a good enough answer for Shaeffer; it was technically the truth.
“She asked me some questions about my background, where I came from,” Shaeffer said, answering the question Konrad had been about to ask.
“Maybe she saw something in you, as well,” he said with a chuckle, but something uncomfortable had settled in his stomach. Shaeffer wasn’t a dragon, and Clara only dealt with her own race. What had she been asking him questions for?
“Maybe, I mean, it wouldn’t be unwanted if she did…” he trailed off and then smiled awkwardly. “She said I’d broken a lot of hearts along the way. I’ve worked in a lot of cities. I think she meant the agents I used to work for, the ones I basically traded in for new ones…but it felt like she was seeing through me.” Another uncomfortable laugh.
“Clara can be quite intuitive,” he said, hoping it was helpful, and Shaeffer shrugged. His lips were stained purple now from the wine, and Konrad watched as he took another sip. Normally, with any other one-night stand, or admirer from his show, he’d have kissed him by now. In fact, Konrad wasn’t sure they’d have even gotten to this point. He probably would’ve been done and ready to send them packing after this long.
But, like his dragon had insisted earlier and he’d known, somehow, subconsciously, there was something special about Shaeffer. He was tender and tentative, nervous almost. And he didn’t seem the type to be nervous, especially after the walk up the stairs or what he’d learned about him from Fiona before approaching him again at the show. A heartbreaker, confident and cocky, a loner. Getting in a fight with his now ex-boyfriend because of a perceived ulterior motive Konrad didn’t want to believe. Maybe that something special about Shaeffer was because of this bond they’d formed, intense and unnamable. Unhappiness at work, lacking any love but the ingenuine kind supplied by admirers…but there were two sides to it. Some turned that pain into art, and some turned it into manipulation. He hoped Shaeffer was the first kind.
His dragon seemed to lean more toward immediate gratification because of this unsureness; tearing Shaeffer’s clothes off then and there and taking what he wanted, then getting to the bottom of whatever connection, or deception, they’d forged in this short time. But Konrad didn’t want to rush it, scare him off before he could find out the truth.
“Well, what did Clara see in you?” Shaeffer asked. Konrad shook his head, wondering that himself. But he knew Shaeffer expected an answer, a realistic one, not the self-loathing pity he showed no one.
“Well, when she found me, I was slowly climbing to the top. I was finally recognized as a ‘real artist,’ people knew my name. But I wasn’t making enough money to take that next step in my career. Reputation and admiration is one thing, but if no one’s buying your art…” he trailed off, and Shaeffer nodded, seeming to understand. “Clara said my work was groundbreaking, and that’s what all the reviews said, too. That’s probably why she got involved with me. I work with pyrotechnics, fire. Fiona, Clara’s assistant, is a quasi-agent for me. She describes my art as ‘one-of-a-kind experiences for a cutting-edge contemporary audience.’ I suppose she’s right.”
Shaeffer nodded in recognition of the name Fiona, but said nothing when he finished. Konrad realized abruptly that Shaeffer probably knew all this, he’d come to the show. He seemed bored, almost. Or maybe not bored, just not impressed by Konrad’s answer. It was surface-level, they both knew that. Maybe, for once, Shaeffer was interested not in the celebrity-Konrad, but the real him.
But then he reminded himself not to get too ahead of himself. How many times had he hoped for this, even experienced it to some capacity, and been disappointed?
“So she’s in it for the money, to lay claim to celebrities,” Shaeffer said, sounding almost disgusted. Or maybe it was the wine. His voice had become scratchier, lilted, his Irish accent more apparent. Konrad hadn’t realized he tried to cover it up, had probably seen a speech coach to hide his accent or at least Americanize it. It tugged at Konrad’s heart, the authenticity of it, but it also made him feel even more attracted to Shaeffer. It was worldly, or maybe otherworldly, or maybe it wasn’t either of those things: maybe it was comforting, relaxing, homey.
Shaeffer raised his glass of wine to his mouth, and as the last of it streamed past his plum-colored lips, Konrad wondered if he would leave. A glass of wine, some dead-end conversation that he was sure could go somewhere if they wanted it to, and that would be it. Nice meeting you, see you at the next show. He tried to solidify the sound of wine-drunk Shaeffer’s Irish lilt in his mind, the dangle of his long, graceful fingers off the arm of the couch. He wanted to memorize it all, because he knew he would never hear or see it again.
Everyone leaves. They always want something from him that he can’t give, talent or power, which wasn’t transferable, or love, attention, things he could barely give himself; how could he give those things to others? He wanted to be loved for himself, not for what he could give people.
Clara was the only one who loved him for who he was, and even that had begun as an interest in his art and supporting the dragon species itself. Shaeffer looked absentmindedly around his apartment, looking at the art and his furnishings, anywhere but Konrad himself. Was it embarrassment, drunkenness, shame, disinterest? He thought about Clara, first meeting her at an art show in a cheap basement which no one had attended because he hadn’t been able to afford anything more than word of mouth from his fair-weather friends.
“Hello, ma’am,” he’d said to her as she stood, resolute but tiny and frail, in front of a piece he wasn’t particularly proud of. He wished she’d look at the main attraction, a man built out of thickly banded wire, his heart of fire melting him from the inside until his body had split in half. What this woman was looking at was a painting of an oak tree, its leaves on fire, so the entire rounded top of it was engulfed in flame, looking like a thick match.
“You painted this.” Not a question.
“I did, yes.”
“Your father was a dragon? But you never knew him, did you?”
“I…what?” he sputtered, backing away from her. No one else was in the exhibition, and his voice sounded unnaturally loud. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you should leave.”
“Your mother raised you. Konrad, we do our research,” her voice sounded like cinders crackling. “My name is Clara Anaheim. Have you ever been to Drake Street?”
“Drake Street, what? Who are you? How do you know about my father?” He looked around, feeling exposed, worried someone might hear them despite the thick concrete walls.
“I just told you who I am. I’m afraid a dragon alone in the world is a dangerous thing. I’d like you to consider moving to Drake Street and letting your art career flourish there, with my help as a benefactor.”
“Why would I do that? I don’t even know you. How do you know all these things about me?” he asked, and she smiled. Her canines were long, sharp, yellow. But, if anything, the smile made her seem friendlier, and the canines were like those of other dragons he’d met, full-blooded ones.
“We can talk further after your show. Or would you like to talk now, considering you’re lacking other guests?”
After that, he’d moved to Drake Street, let her support him until he could support himself, and he’d grown closer to her than he had been with his own mother, who’d died shortly, abruptly, and unemotionally before he’d met Clara. She explained all about his father, how dragons had to mate with humans to avoid inbreeding and strengthen the bloodline, the species. It wasn’t, though, part of the tradition to abandon the human you impregnated. She helped him understand that the abandonment, the hard pregnancy of carrying a dragon, and the lack of support in raising one was his mother’s reason for her cold detachment, her lack of any maternal feelings for him, her embitterment.
Clara became his new mother, his new protector, and loved him as a mother should. But she was the only one, and it had been easy to get close; he hadn’t had to go through revealing himself as a dragon shifter. She’d known already. That secret, impossible to explain, had kept him from getting close to anyone even if they’d been able to be patient with the fact that his art, his career, came first. And that in itself was rare.
He wasn’t sure why Shaeffer was triggering all these thoughts, but he found himself growing frustrated by his contemplation and Shaeffer’s patient silence. Why was he thinking these things at all? There was no reason to consider revealing his true identity, that was only necessary for a mating, and he was sure Shaeffer wasn’t a suitable candidate. Was he? He’d have to find someone eventually, why couldn’t it be Shaeffer? He was the first person to show any real interest in him, in his art.
A piercing staccato ringtone went off, hurting Konrad’s ears, and Shaeffer jumped up, almost dropping his glass. Konrad reached out and took it while Shaeffer dug in his jeans for his phone.
“I’m sorry, just…I’m so sorry, one second,” he said apologetically, looking panicked. Konrad felt his stomach turn, a sick, confused jealousy coursing through him. Who was calling? Shaeffer answered the phone, sitting back on the couch and drawing his knees up, pinching them together and leaning forward over his legs, curling in on himself. “Jaxon, hi,” he said brightly, and then winced. Konrad, for once, felt grateful for his enhanced hearing and listened to hear an older man’s raspy, hoarse voice screaming over the phone.
Shaeffer, I’ve called you fifteen motherfucking times. I told you to call me back about the Tokyo job, he screeched, and Shaeffer held the phone a few inches away from his ear, cringing.
“I know, I was going to call you after the show, I was networking,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows. Excuses, Konrad could tell. The voice grew low, threatening, but Konrad could hear him hissing, repeatedly.
Don’t fuck me over, Shaeffer. It’ll be the last thing you do. Don’t fuck me over. I’ll ruin you. It was ugly, stomach-turning abuse, and Konrad felt bad for him. At least in the art world, everyone kissed your ass.
“Don’t worry, Jaxon…yes, Jaxon. Yeah. Bye.” He clicked the phone a few times, apparently desperate to get off the call, and then looked up at Konrad with a bashful, shameful smile. “My agent,” he said quietly, and then looked down.
“The art scene, you know, it’s bad, too. You never know if anyone truly likes you, or just wants to feed off whatever attention you’re getting as an artist,” Konrad said, knowing it could very well apply to Shaeffer even though the other intention behind it was making him feel better, trying to identify with his struggle. Shaeffer looked at him and then laughed, looking away.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you can relate. Fiona told me about the fight you had outside the show, just before you came in. With Kyle. Before you were ‘alone.’” Shaeffer looked at him in shock, but then quickly masked his face. Fiona had told him, but with their interaction, Konrad had wanted to cast whatever worry he’d felt about Shaeffer aside, whatever “ulterior motive” his ex-boyfriend had been accusing him of.
“Well, as I’ve told anyone who’s asked tonight, he was insecure. And boring, honestly,” Shaeffer said, a bit harshly. “I’m not even really sure what he was talking about.” Konrad nodded thoughtfully, standing to refill their glasses. Konrad could see a familiarity within Shaeffer. Smart and pragmatic like a dragon, knowing it was better to play dumb when accused of something because he was attractive enough to get away with it.
“I’m sure you had no idea what he was talking about. You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” Konrad said, getting tired of playing the game, skirting around the things they wanted to say to each other. Shaeffer flushed and looked away.
“Well, now I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, with a hint of laughter. “I’m just here to admire you and maybe get lucky with the famous Konrad Fontaine.” Konrad turned around with the glasses of wine and handed one to Shaeffer, seeing where he was going with this. A new kind of game, back to flirting.
“Ah, well, you know I have ten of you lining up at my door,” Konrad teased, and Shaeffer grinned.
“Ten of me? There’s only one of me, darling.”
“One of you…one of a kind. I should think about adding you to my collection, then,” Konrad said, feigning thoughtfulness. Shaeffer’s grin didn’t fade, it grew, and Konrad noticed how apparent the adorable gap between his teeth was, probably the draw of his looks as a model.
“A collection! I’d like some one-on-one time,” Shaeffer said, and then drank nearly half the wine in his glass and put it on the side table. “Do I have to beg? The famous Konrad Fontaine, a celebrity, known around the world, I’d be famous just for shagging you.”
“I wouldn’t mind you begging. It makes me feel powerful,” Konrad joked, and Shaeffer smiled wickedly.
“Oh, please, Konrad, take me to bed,” he said dramatically, and Konrad felt himself getting hot, the back of his neck warm. “Do I sound like I’m faking?” Shaeffer asked, and his eyes grew serious.
“I can’t really tell, try again,” Konrad said, and he could hear the rasp in his voice.
“Please take me to bed…won’t you? I’ll do anything you say,” he said, biting his lip in anticipation, or maybe he was trying not to laugh. But Konrad stood up and swept him up into his arms, throwing him over his shoulder.
“You sounded serious that time,” he said easily, walking through the apartment to his bedroom, a plush king-sized bed nestled in the corner. The apartment was dimming, but the light hanging over his bed, low and golden, lit up the shadows of Shaeffer’s face wonderfully when Konrad gently lowered him onto it. He stepped back to admire him in the spotlight of the hanging orb of light, and Shaeffer looked up at him, clearly disarmed and uncertain of his next move.
Moments later, as Konrad examined the light bouncing off his skin and the way it lit his pale green eyes, turning them silver, Shaeffer began to touch himself through his pants. Konrad watched him hungrily, knowing this was what turned him on, being watched by someone he was equally attracted to as he performed, modeled. He stopped touching himself and lifted the hem of his shirt slowly, torturously slowing, until it was at his shoulders. Then he arched his back, a contortionist, and pulled it over his head, tossing it casually on the ground with a flick of his fingers. He rolled his hips into the air and kept them there, maintaining eye contact with Konrad as he unbuttoned his jeans and rolled them down his thighs. Konrad’s stiff member pressed against his pants and he shoved his hands in his pockets, wanting to save that first touch for Shaeffer’s thin, agile fingers.
Pants off and accordioned on the floor next to the bed, Shaeffer’s erection tented his tight boxers. He got to his knees and started to peel them off, letting them bunch around his legs. Shaeffer knew his angles, that was true, and he turned and twisted, fisting his hand around his cock, massaging it so slowly he seemed to be torturing himself as well as Konrad, who had unbuttoned his pants by now and was touching himself, mirroring Shaeffer’s movements.
“Object of beauty,” Konrad rasped, and Shaeffer smiled, blinding him. Konrad approached th
e bed, faster than he meant, and kneeled on the edge in front of Shaeffer, a head taller. Shaeffer slid his fingers under Konrad’s shirt, sliding it up and over his head, and then worked on his pants, his underwear, slowly, languorously, teasingly, until he was naked as well. Mere centimeters of static between them, Konrad kissed Shaeffer’s perfect plump lips, feeling his heart stop and start every time Shaeffer slid his tongue along Konrad’s lower lip. The light from overhead was gold through his closed eyelids, and he pulled away, pushing Shaeffer down on his back. He watched Shaeffer look up at the apartment’s high ceiling, taken up almost entirely by a skylight created from reclaimed greenhouse panels, the stars overheard reflecting in his eyes.
Konrad climbed on top of him, kissed him deeply, and then moved onto his side, letting Shaeffer turn to meet him, their hands exploring one another’s bodies.
The shrill staccato sounded from the couch, and Shaeffer froze, then resumed kissing Konrad with half the fervor and none of the creativity.
“Do you need to go?” Konrad asked, laughing humorlessly against his mouth. Shaeffer didn’t respond, humming as they kissed, his mind elsewhere, either on the feelings of his body or the phone ringing on the couch. Konrad pulled away and Shaeffer looked up at him, seafoam green eyes sparkling. “Why don’t you stay?”
“I’m right here,” Shaeffer said slowly, shaking his head in confusion.
“Stay the night,” Konrad said, and the words surprised him just as much as they surprised Shaeffer, who looked at him warily, backing away, looking like he wanted to run. They were crossing into dangerous territory, but Konrad wasn’t sure he cared. All he knew was that this feeling was different from every feeling, hundreds of thousands of feelings he’d been disappointed and numbed by for the past several years. The words, though, wouldn’t manifest, got stuck in his throat. He was too prideful, maybe, the alpha dragon in him unable to beg or ask or do anything past insinuate that he doesn’t want to sleep alone, or that he’s beginning to care more than he should for someone he barely knows. All he knows is that it feels right.