by R. Cooper
Piotr lowered his head but held Bartleby’s furious stare. “They looked at me and they knew. They would shove us together, as if that would make you want me the same way. They thought all their problems, all my problems, would be solved if you’d be my familiar. From their smiles, I could tell they knew.”
“Yes, they knew!” Once Bartleby said those words, he seemed to calm. He studied Piotr in astonishment, then took a step closer to him. “I got my first definite answer at fourteen. So I watched you for years to try to be certain, years of me trying to understand how it could be true with someone so distant, so unreachable. I looked and I looked as you got taller and broader, and grew out your beard. I looked at you ducking to enter doorways when the trees themselves would bend for you if you desired it enough. What a joke it was to everyone, who thought it was your body drawing me, or your magic. That’s what I thought too, until I realized you would bend the trees for anyone who asked, but not once think to do it for yourself. What was I supposed to offer you? The great Piotr, who never needed me.” His voice trembled. “I could watch your hands all day, Piotr, casting spells or making tea, I don’t care. That is true, and they all know it. But mostly I want to do something for you so you don’t have to do everything. Even if you didn’t want me, I would have wished for that.”
Piotr gave a faint shake of his head, not quite following what Bartleby meant, and Bartleby studied him with frustrated curiosity. “Have I been too subtle for you, Piotr? You always do this. You always convince yourself there is just the one way. You only even let me near you now because you felt sorry for me.” He wrinkled his nose when Piotr started to object, and Piotr quieted. Bartleby took another step closer. “You felt sorry for me because you thought I was told to be here. And then because you realized I was leaving, and you don’t want me to go. But I had to—” His voice broke. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to do it, Piotr. I need to help, even if the only one I long to help doesn’t want me. And I waited, and I tried, and I read my fortune over and over. But they still kept giving me you, and—you don’t understand, do you?” he marveled. “You still don’t. Look at you, staring at me like that, with all that wonder in your eyes. Like you always do, but I never realized what it was until you first opened the door and were overcome at the sight of me.” He tossed his head for whatever expression he saw on Piotr’s face. “I can’t take it anymore. Your denial is killing me. Come down here. Come here and kiss me.”
He stamped his foot in a tiny display of impatience when Piotr didn’t move. Lightning lit up the window behind him. Thunder followed it. Bartleby raised his voice. “The clock is ticking, Piotr. Kiss me or lose me.”
Piotr kissed him, his hands beneath the too-large sweater on the bare skin of Bartleby’s back, Bartleby’s feet off the floor, Bartleby’s fingers tangled in his hair. Piotr picked him up and kissed him ravenously and without softness. Bartleby’s mouth was harvest, spice and apples and pumpkin—the food Piotr had given him—his throat was painted like a flower, and the sounds that emerged from it were heady and hot.
Piotr kissed him, and paused to breathe, and kissed him again. He took his mouth, starving for the taunting curve of it, and the noisy gasp of Bartleby parting his lips. Bartleby hitched himself up higher against Piotr’s chest and let Piotr’s hands roam to his thighs, and then his ass, to keep them pressed together. Piotr gave Bartleby the kiss he’d wanted and then another, and another, deeper and slower, until Bartleby clung to him like the vine in his skin.
Bartleby made sounds like Midsummer, because Bartleby was his spring, and spring meant life and beginnings and fucking. He splayed his fingers over Piotr’s jaw and put his palms against his beard, and moaned as if that was too much when it was hardly anything. He flung his arms around Piotr’s neck, and made a noise, sharp and aching, when Piotr put his mouth to the blooms of honeysuckle and licked as though he had one of the sticky flowers on his tongue.
Piotr imagined the equinox with Bartleby on his back beneath the blue sky. They would have the months of sun and growth, and when the weather turned cutting and cold again, he would keep Bartleby warm in his bed. He’d feed him and light his way in the dark nights. He would fuck him beneath the warmth of his quilts and among the down of his pillows, and kiss every inch of him, and hope it would be enough to make him stay.
“Yes,” Bartleby panted his answer, although Piotr hadn’t spoken. “Yes.” He shuddered for Piotr’s hands holding him and pressed himself closer to Piotr’s chest. The shift of his hips nearly made Piotr stumble. But he was stronger than he’d ever been, and only held on tighter as Bartleby rocked against him. Bartleby placed butterfly kisses to the side of Piotr’s neck, and then rubbed his face there like a cat. His every word was breathless. “Piotr, come with me. Come with me to be among the others. The way we were meant to.”
“Meant to?” Piotr stopped when the words sank in, with Bartleby’s lips wet and parted for him. Bartleby pressed a kiss to his chin, and smoothed his hands over his face. He was undeterred by Piotr’s hesitation, perhaps because when he tilted his head up, Piotr dragged his lips across Bartleby’s, sweetly and slowly. Piotr couldn’t help himself, even when he had to protest. “Nobody is meant to be with me.” He kissed Bartleby again, at the side of his mouth, and then his ear. “I am always alone.”
A small laugh answered him. “Not always. Not now.” Bartleby lowered his head to rest it against Piotr’s chest. He huffed at Piotr’s collarbone, and ran his hands over Piotr’s t-shirt. A moment after that, and his hands were under it and he was nipping at the cotton.
Piotr made a noise like a bear, and would have been embarrassed if he hadn’t been busy lifting Bartleby to the countertop. Bartleby took the opportunity to wrap his legs more firmly around him, and then used his hands to guide Piotr’s face back to his throat. His groan for the bite he got made the blood rush in Piotr’s ears.
“A familiar,” Bartleby gasped at him, and the bottle of cider clunked against the floor, landing right-side up. “A human familiar.” Bartleby scratched his fingernails through Piotr’s hair and angled his head to let Piotr trace his tattoo with his tongue all over again. “The first one born in generations, born the same year as you.” He slid his other hand down Piotr’s back to drag his shirt up. “Your hands… I can’t…. I was meant to be your familiar. And I could have been only that to you, except that destiny made you handsome and caring and dear, and so hot I cannot stand it. It told me to look at you, and I did.” His skin was incredible. Piotr couldn’t stop touching it. “That….” Bartleby arched into every caress; he seemed tinier somehow, with Piotr’s hands over his ribs. “Make a place for me, even if it’s only in your bed. Be my witch, and my Piotr, and I will give you so much.” He pressed his fingers into Piotr’s flesh as if he wanted to leave to bruises. “Will you fuck me at Midsummer? Please.”
“Bartleby.” Piotr tried to be stern, but the pleading urgency in Bartleby’s voice had him pushing forward. “Nobody stays with me.” That had always been true. But Bartleby shook his head when Piotr eased back and continued trying to convince Bartleby he didn’t want him. “I’m too intense. I’m too weird. Too powerful. I can’t give people the tenderness they want.” He stroked the curve of Bartleby’s spine, the tops of his knees, the silky hollow beneath them. “I don’t… I don’t know how.”
Perhaps it finally worked. Bartleby stilled.
“Oh.” For several horrible moments of tension and harsh breathing, Bartleby was motionless. He pulled his hand from Piotr’s back, and then placed it lightly at his chest. He lowered his head so Piotr had to stop kissing his throat and look at him.
Bartleby’s eyes were wide. “All this time I thought it was because you thought I was less. But it’s because you thought you were.” He leaned closer and put his face to Piotr’s neck. He breathed in unevenly. “There’s a storm raging outside.”
“Yes,” Piotr agreed, cautious and confused. His body ached. His cock was hard. Bartleby was half-naked and in his clothes and still
trying to tell him something. “Yes, there is.” Lightning lit up the window again, and then thunder rattled the house.
The lights didn’t even flicker this time before going out.
The sound of Bartleby’s panting seemed especially loud with the neighborhood silent. “That’s us, Piotr. That storm is us. It’s the night before Halloween, and even human traditions have strength. This is a night to turn things on their head. Maybe I am more powerful than you, right now at least.”
“What?” Piotr shivered for the warm glide of Bartleby’s hands at his sides as Bartleby pushed his shirt up.
“Light a candle,” Bartleby ordered in a whisper, coming back to put his mouth to Piotr’s bare chest. “Light one so I can see you.” But his tongue found Piotr’s nipple, and Piotr couldn’t have focused enough to light anything.
All the same, a few of the candles in the dining room came to life, casting a soft orange glow into the kitchen and allowing him to see Bartleby’s face, letting Bartleby see his.
“I’m your familiar, and that is our power out there.” Bartleby wrinkled his nose and then wriggled the rest of his body in aroused excitement. “That storm is us. I should have known it from the moment I went outside. What you feel, I…. When I came in here and you took my clothes from me and dried me, I could feel the power rising in you. Piotr, that storm is ours.”
“It’s raining,” Piotr heard himself saying, his thinking slowed by the feel of Bartleby moving against him again. Bartleby was hard. This was amazing, somehow. Astonishing. Bartleby’s cock was hard for him, and Bartleby was kissing him once more, softly, and then not softly at all.
“I like the rain,” Bartleby murmured distractedly, not understanding, and lifted up his arms in invitation for Piotr to finish undressing him, which Piotr did.
Then Bartleby was naked for him and stretched out on his back on the counter. He shuddered impatiently at the press of Piotr’s hands to his inner thighs and trembled when Piotr exhaled over his stomach. “Oh, the rain,” Bartleby realized, as it began to come down in sheets, poundingly loud, flooding the garden and drenching the town. “Oh.” He breathed in revelation, and then slid his hand into Piotr’s hair and let himself be held down. “But I don’t understand. What do I give you?” he wondered, barely audible.
Piotr shook his head, unwilling to answer, and smoothed his hand over Bartleby’s stomach, liking how big his hand looked on Bartleby, how careful he wanted to be despite Bartleby’s painfully tight grip on his hair. Bartleby was a wisp of a thing, but he would not let go. Piotr had always dreamed of Bartleby’s body, of his mouth, but with Bartleby before him, he couldn’t stop touching. Then it was nothing at all to go from touching to tasting.
Bartleby let out a surprised snort of ticklish laughter for the kiss at his belly button, but then unfurled his other hand at Piotr’s shoulder before pulling it away to cover his mouth. Piotr paused in the middle of trailing kisses down the crease of his thigh to draw Bartleby’s hand away and put it back to his shoulder. Then he bent his head to swallow around Bartleby’s cock.
The rain was like drums. Bartleby’s skin was burning hot, almost feverish. He shivered, and curled and uncurled his fingers in Piotr’s hair. He made no other move, but Piotr pushed at his hips anyway, and took more of his cock into his mouth, until Bartleby cried out.
“Piotr, please,” Bartleby started again, his muscles trembling as he tried to stay still, and his words were separated by gasps. “What do I give you?”
“This.” Piotr pulled off long enough to answer him, and nuzzled his skin in obvious need for as long as he thought he could get away with it. Then he wrapped his lips around Bartleby and drew pleasure from him until not even the rain could drown out the sounds he made.
~~
The morning of Halloween, Piotr woke before sunup in his own bed, naked and alone, with a red flower on his chest and a silent raven above his bedroom door. The world outside was soggy and drenched, the garden full of leaves and bits of broken branches, the items in his refrigerator saved only by the cold temperature of the house with the heater not working.
The lack of electricity until the early hours of the morning meant he would have overslept if not for the croaking of Pallas to wake him. Bartleby’s clothes had been gone from his laundry room, and all the packaged treats for the Samhain revels were absent from the kitchen counter. The cider remained, either left behind in an attempt to make him attend the gathering, or Bartleby had been too concerned with sneaking out to bother with the noisy glass bottles in their crates.
Despite all of that, when Piotr had shown up for work, Kelly had smirked at him and asked if he’d had a good night. There were no marks on him, but somehow he was transparent, even to an ordinary human who had never heard the name Bartleby. If Piotr had known a way to describe Bartleby to her without mentioning magic, he might have told her everything.
The rain stayed away, spent, for the moment, or politely allowing the children their time to trick-or-treat first. The trick-or-treating began earlier and earlier every year, as more and more parents feared the dark. Kids visited malls now, in the day time, he’d heard, and wondered if the origins of the holiday might truly be lost forever.
It seemed so when he finally walked up the steps to the house after a long day. Someone down the street was having a party, and he could hear the drunken revelry and music from half a block away.
But he lit the candles in the jack-o-lanterns on each step, and the one by the door, and paused to consider the cats curled up in the corners of the porch. Only the black cats would occupy his porch on this night, even the ones who already belonged to someone. His porch offered protection from the superstitious and cruel, and even escaped housecats knew it. They weren’t looking for a witch, only safety, which he would always grant them.
Inside, he changed out of his uniform into jeans and a black sweater, and poured out his bags of candy into a bowl and stuck it on the small table beneath the hall mirror. He lit the candles in the parlor window and enjoyed about fifteen minutes of peace to eat a sandwich for dinner. Then the doorbell began to ring.
The young children, who never tried to hide their wonder, petted the baker’s dozen of black cats sitting like Halloween statues on his porch, and made faces to mimic the jack-o-lanterns. They forgot to say ‘trick or treat’ most of the time, or clearly didn’t understand what they were saying, only that it got them candy.
Piotr smiled at them anyway and assured nervous parents these cats would never claw or bite, as indeed they didn’t. He gave the most candy to the little witches in their pointy hats, and glared at any teenagers who showed up in their t-shirts and jeans without even a mask to celebrate the day.
Adults who’d been born in this town commented on how they had always heard his house was haunted. They laughed as they said it. Until they saw something in the parlor window, anyway. Elysia had always had a flare for the dramatic.
Then the tiny princesses and ninjas would demand to go to the next house, and their parents would lead them away, as the kids screamed their excitement for the best holiday ever—except for Christmas, of course, or Hanukkah, or their birthdays, or the New Year. But they would remember this. This would be their Halloween, fun and innocent mischief and treats, a night to go out in the dark with smiling pumpkins to light their way—and a hint of sorcery from the ancient house down the street.
And when they got older, they might do as the other teenagers did, and challenge themselves to visit the witch’s garden.
But that would be later.
For the first time in years, Piotr sighed tiredly to think of the teenagers loudly daring each other to climb over the fence into his yard. He considered the cider in his garage instead, and how easy it would be to load it into his grandmother’s Toyota and drive to Trinity Creek. The Pruitts were hosting the celebrations this year. It wouldn’t be a long journey, half an hour, if he took his time, which he would, with so many people wandering freely in the dark.
The children
were nearly done with their door to door visits. He hadn’t heard any giggling or pattering feet in a while, and the music from the house party was growing louder. He could extinguish the candles and leave the bowl on the rocking chair outside. He could go. Bartleby hadn’t left him a single one of his own muffins to enjoy, and his cider would be missed.
But he went to the refrigerator instead, and pulled out the half-finished bottle Bartleby had thoughtfully placed there when he must have found it in the morning. The cider had gone flat, but Piotr put the bottle to his lips and drank until he was a little dizzy.
With an inch left at the bottom of the bottle, he went back to the parlor to listen for any latecomers. This was the only company he could expect. Bartleby wanted him, he’d said he wanted to be his familiar and his lover, but he’d left. Piotr was the one stupid enough to be surprised by that.
The curtains stirred as Elysia had more fun with some parents or kids across the way. They’d be here soon, so Piotr took his cider to the door with him, and waited until the doorbell rang to open it.
His heartbeat deafened him for the time it took to recognize the figure at his doorstep. His skin flushed hotter than all the candles in the parlor windows, now slowly snuffing out, one by one. He hadn’t turned on the porch light, so in the end it was only the light from the hallway and wavering flames of the jack-o-lanterns to show him Bartleby.
Bartleby in a tall, pointed black witch’s hat and an ugly strap-on nose, complete with wart. Bartleby in a black skirt pinned up to show orange petticoats, and a bodice out of Sleepy Hollow. His stockings were black with white spider webs, but his broom was one hundred percent authentic.
He must have been cold, because he’d wrapped a long black scarf around his neck, although that still left plenty of skin exposed. He held the knobby wood of his broomstick with graceful ease, but his gaze was shy, beautifully so.