Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11240634.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      D.Gray-man
  Relationship:
      Howard_Link/Nea_Walker
  Character:
      Howard_Link, Allen_Walker, Malcolm_C._Lvellie, Katerina_Campbell, Nea_D.
      Campbell
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Humiliation, Manipulation, Blackmail,
      Unhealthy_Relationships, Implied/Referenced_Domestic_Violence,
      Masturbation, Frottage, Oral_Sex, Inspired_by_Aku_no_Hana, Minor_Howard
      Link/Allen_Walker_-_Freeform
  Series:
      Part 1 of my_own_private_eden
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-06-19 Words: 20026
****** my own private eden ******
by hurryup
Summary
     Neah leaned forwards, heart racing.
     "I saw you yesterday," he said in a low, conspiratorial whisper. "I
     saw you steal Allen's gym uniform."
     Link's narrow eyes went very, very wide. For a long, breathless
     moment, he didn't move a muscle. Neither did Neah. He was terrified
     of disrupting the spell; this moment of power.
     Young, dangerous, and deadly bored with his shitstain of a small
     town, sixteen year-old balletomane Neah Campbell's life takes a sharp
     turn after he accidentally witnesses Howard Link, resident golden boy
     and class representative, stealing their classmate's gym clothes.
     Recognising Link as a fellow outsider, Neah blackmails Link into
     surrendering control of his life. In the process, he sets off a chain
     of events neither boy could've anticipated.
     Expect several curious allusions to classical ballet, the
     indescribable Gothic horror of rural Ontario, and all the passion and
     madness of a Charles Baudelaire poem.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
 
The sidewalk was chipped and gritty, sloppily patchworked with new black
squares where bits had been dug up and relaid in fresh tarmac. There was grime
in the grooves of the manhole covers, scrubby yellow weeds reaching out
miserably from the breaks in chain link fences, and street signs painted with
black and yellow graffiti. A kid on an aluminum scooter trundled down the
street, rattling slowly over the speed bump at the crossroads– the handrail on
the embankment up to the cycle path rusting where a bolt had been taken.
The round, ruthless sun was warming Neah's black hair. The false promises of
spring were everywhere, yellow and pink and shining strangely through the
grime. Although the cicadas of June hadn't yet begun their sad little song,
soon enough, they would.
The school building was about a ten minute from Neah's house, but he preferred
to take his bike. He pedaled down the gritty black road, tires jittering over
the uneven lay of the pavement. The scenery whizzed by in a gray-green blur,
the vines on the walls blending into the ruddy color of the road signs. The
wind whipped through his hair, cooling him off from the undulating rays of
light above.
Neah had biked down this road a hundred times, a thousand times. He had the
entire layout of the town memorized, every street light, every building, every
crack and whorl in the fences. It was all too easy. After all, in small towns
like these, nothing ever really changed. They just started to rot.
And that was it.
Pulling in front of the high school building, he skidded to a rough halt. He
slung one leg off his bike and climbed down, walking his bike to the nearest
stand and locking it in one lazy, janky motion. All around him, students were
filing into the main building— precociously coquettish girls with their uniform
skirts hiked above the knee, slack-mouthed boys with their ties askew. Standing
several feet ahead boy from Neah's class glanced back. When he caught a glimpse
of Neah, he pantomimed a shudder, and leaned in close to whisper something into
his friend's ear. His friend laughed. An unpleasant, beastly sound.
One of these days, Neah thought sourly, I'm going to put death in the water.
I'm going to poison them all, poison them at the source. I'm going to put death
in the very springs that give them life. That's how you deal with rats, isn't
it?
"You shouldn't be so unsociable,"  Katerina would scold Neah as she prepared
his lunch."It's not healthy, spending so much time alone. If you only gave your
classmates a chance, I'm sure you'd find yourself surprised."
Perhaps that was true, but Neah wished they were dead all the same. He would
have liked to come into classroom that morning and see them all, the girls with
glossy lips and the boys with unkempt hair, lying there crying with the pain
and dying. He would then help himself to the teacher's desk, he thought,
stepping over their bodies, taking whatever he fancied from their pockets
before biking back home. He was never sorry when  had thoughts like this. He
only wished they would come true. He hated them all, hated them with a passion
that burned his palms and his scalp.
Katerina always told him that hatred was weakness. That kindness was Neah's
truest strength. I know you miss Mana, Neah, but you mustn't turn your back on
the world. Come now, darling. Smile for me.
Sometimes, Neah hated her too. 
Her and Mana both.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The school building was unquestionably the most beautiful structure in town. It
was a tall, stone and marble structure built by the Jesuits a hundred years
ago, and the only thing in this spitsack rural heap that could be called
important-looking. Not that that meant much to Neah. The ancient Romans built
their most beautiful works of architecture for wild beasts to fight in.
The school, Neah thought, was full of wild beasts, too.
There were two elementary schools in town, and only one middle school. Most
everyone in his grade had been in Neah's classes since childhood, and the years
they'd spent circulating the same halls had done nothing to endear Neah to
them.
Neah often wondered if he was a changeling child. Some days, he genuinely hoped
that was the case. There was an undeniable appeal to the idea. It would be
vindicating, knowing there was a reason he felt so thoroughly strange and alien
compared to his classmates. That it was a mark he'd been born special.
Different.
Perhaps he was truly the son of a river spirit or a cannibalistic demon queen.
And perhaps, one of these days, his real mother would come to take him away.
She would grab him by the hand and lead him to the place where he belonged—
somewhere far, far away from this mass grave of a town, surrounded by rivers
and landfills and mountains.
That day had not yet come, though, and so Neah would content himself to sit and
wait.
Neah's seat was at the very back of the classroom, right near the window. He
liked this spot quite a bit. Whenever class became a little too much to handle,
he'd watch the clouds roiling by outside, or the cars trundling by in the
streets, or simply stare up ahead at the boy whose desk was directly in front
of him.
Howard Link was the class representative, and a dull, upright type, as far as
Neah could tell. He had neat, cramped handwriting, exemplary grades, and a
sour-milk face that was framed by a wicked-sharp brow line. Good-looking,
maybe, but it was hard to say what the source of those good looks were. By and
large, Howard Link wasn't particularly worth watching, but Neah watched him
anyways. Sheer coincidence of proximity, really.
Although Neah couldn't say he knew Howard Link all that well, he wasintimately
familiar with the back of Link's neck. Every now and then, during particularly
egregious lessons, Neah's would find himself scrutinizing it. He would trade
sanitized lectures on the French revolution in exchange for a careful,
indulgent examination of the pleated fall of Link's blonde hair. Often, he was
tempted to reach out and yank it. It would be funny, he thought, to hear little
Goody Shoeshine cry out.
It would be even funnier if he hacked that braid off with scissors while Link’s
back was still turned. The very thought made Neah smile with petty, sadistic
glee. He imagined snatching his prize up, running all the way home, and then
planting it in the ground. Maybe another Link would sprout up from the garden;
a thin, serious-eyed flower. Not that Neah could think of any particular use
for a second Link. He was only barely interested in the original.
Really, the best part about watching Howard Link, Neah decided, was watching
Howard Link watch Allen Walker.
And there was no doubt in Neah's mind that Link did stare at Allen. The fact
seemed so painfully obvious that Neah was shocked no one else seemed to have
noticed. Every now and then, before class, or during a lesson Link clearly had
nothing to learn from, Neah would see Link's head turn to the right, gaze
settling on the pale boy sitting three desks down. Puppy love, Neah supposed.
Flighty. Saccharine. Boring.
Neah wondered if it would be funny to tell Allen Walker about Link's little
crush. He wondered if it would be funny to expose Link's sexuality to the whole
class.
Poor Howard Link. Poor, poor Howard Link, with his perfect grades and crisp
blazers and blank, boring face.
Oh, but it would be funny. All of it. After all, the most interesting thing a
boy like that could do was suffer.
At the toll of the second period bell, the teacher petered off awkwardly, and
the students climbed out of their seats to go to lunch.
"C'mon, let's eat on the roof," Lavi sand, slinging an arm around Allen's neck
with lazy, sleazy grace. Allen squirmed out of his grip.
"It's way too hot to eat outside," he told Lavi. Neah, still seated, glanced up
at Link. He was staring at Allen openly, wistfully. Probably wishing he had the
courage to ask Allen to eat lunch with him. How horribly cliched.
Neah went to his locker, grabbed his lunch, and brought it back into the
classroom to eat at his seat. Link had apparently had the same idea. As Neah
dropped back into his seat, he watched Howard Link unfold his lunch.
A steaming thermos of tea, a sandwich sliced into four even quarts, a pink
peach, and another thermos that emitted a rich, brothy scent Neah could catch
even a desk away. It all looked homemade, and carefully made at that. Link had
probably prepared and packed it himself. After all, the pristine, feminine
neatness of his food was in perfect alignment with his sissy personality. Plus,
who else would've prepared it for him anyway? Link didn't have a mother. He
lived with his uncle, the man with the crisp suits and fancy car. Neah rode by
their house every single morning. It was the easily the biggest in town, that
castle.
Link's friends, Tokusa and Madarao came back into the classroom. They pushed
their desks up against Link's so they could all eat together. How cute. How
obnoxious. They talked about everything and nothing, making little jokes that
are funny to everyone but Neah. Neah put his head on his desk and took sparse
bites of his own food, watching the three of them and pretending he wasn't.
Every now and then, Link seemed to space out from the conversation now and
then, sometimes glancing down at a book to read a few paragraphs, sometimes
glancing furtively across the classroom at the space between the door and Allen
Walker's vacant desk. He bit into his peach. Wiped at the juice that trickled
down from the corner of his mouth, lips glistening.
It didn't make for complex entertainment, but it was something.
===============================================================================
 
Fourth period was gym class, which wasn’t Neah’s favorite class, not by a long
shot. He allowed himself to be corralled into the locker room, throwing his
standard-issue uniform shirt on with a pair of sweatpants, rolling his eyes
silently at the surrounding conversation of the boys. They whipped their shirts
at one another and whooped and wailed, the air thick with the stench of some
boy’s Axe body spray— a terribly misguided scent.
Once outside, Neah tried to make himself as scarce as possible, lingering at
the edge of the outdoor track. He scuffed his shoe and wandered aimlessly
without really participating, eyes glossing over Howard Link and Allen Walker
and all the sweat-soaked beasts of summer to stare at the vast, empty sky,
filled with vast, empty sunshine.
"Campbell!" At the shriek of the whistle, Neah glanced up. Their coach, a hard-
faced man in his forties, glared down at him resolutely. His small, watery eyes
were jaundiced and shot through with blood. "Could you at least pretend to put
some effort in?"
Effort? On this? No fucking point, shitbug.
"Not interested," Neah said. His fingers curled into a little pantomime wave.
"Buh-bye now, sir."
The coach’s sick little eyes went narrow.
"Campbell, you’ve got to fix your attitude before—”
"Yeah, no, definitely not interested," Neah said. He plucked absently at his
uniform shirt, the big printed C in Campbell. He couldn’t keep himself from
smiling, all teeth and no mirth. “Please feel free to fuck off at your earliest
convenience, sir.”
There was a beat. A beat of total,brilliant, beautiful silence. The coach’s
weathered, leathery face coloured red, very slowly, as though he was being
cooked over a hot stove. It was pretty funny, actually. Funny enough that Neah
found himself biting back the harsh bark of a laugh.
“My office,” the coach said. “Now.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
By the time Neah was allowed to go, the last bell had already rung. He was
still dressed in his gym uniform, he realized. His clothes were still in the
boys' locker room, trapped in the dinghy interior of his own gym locker. At
least it would be empty, he thought. He wasn't much in the mood to hear the
other boys posture and strut. Right about now, all he wanted was to take his
bike out down by the river in search of a little peace and quiet.
The hallways floors were lined with aging linoleum and smelled sharply of
ammonia. Neah shouldered his backpack over one shoulder as he made his way back
to the boy's changing room, shoes scuffing quietly against the tiles as he
went. The black rubber soles were beginning to wear thin, but he was certain
Katerina would resist buying a new pair if he asked. One more year, Neah. You
just need to make them last one more year.
Neah stopped at the grilled changing room door, then paused, realizing it had
been left ajar. Neah reached into his pocket for his phone, bringing the screen
to life with an idle tap. It was 3:55 PM. Most of the students should have
filed out of the school by now— maybe a few were lingering for an after-school
club.
Something kept Neah from pushing the door wide open to grab his gym bag from
his locker. Instead, he leaned forwards carefully, just peeking through the
loose partition between the door and wall. Howard Link was standing inside,
pressed sharp and neat in his uniform blazer and black trousers, fastidious
braid falling smoothly down over his back.
Neah frowned. Link was holding something in his hands. Fabric? Neah frowned,
craning forwards to see. A gym shirt, by the look of it, but it seemed too
small to be Link's own. Neah supposed someone had forgotten theirs by accident.
Maybe Link was planning on bringing it to the lost and found. Such a good boy.
Then, Neah realized something. Something peculiar, something that changed his
entire understanding of the situation. The cotton fold of the shirt shifted in
Link's hands, exposing the glossy white W in Walker— just as Link lifted the
shirt up to his face to breathe it in deep.
Link was holding Allen Walker's gym shirt.
What was more, he was sniffing it. He was standing alone, smelling Allen's
clothes— and by God, if his expression didn't look downright worshipful.
All at one, Neah realized his heart was hammering.  Neah felt as though the sun
had somehow gotten into his body; it was burning up at his very core, hot,
sweet, manic, helter-skelter. He could feel it opening  up and blooming in his
stomach like flower, like a drop of yellow ink. It was spilling over,
overflowing, and echoing out silently throughout the room— a dying star, a
supernova expanding in the space between Neah, Link, and Allen's unwashed gym
shirt. Incredible. Uncontrollable.
In that moment, Neah felt closer to Link than any other human alive. He
understood him. He saw him. In this one low, ugly, transfixing moment, Link's
mask had slipped, leaving the reality of his being completely exposed to Neah's
prying eyes.
Howard Link was a sick little pervert.
Rotten to the core, as rotten as they come.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, Neah lifted his phone. The universe
and stars must have aligned for him for just that once, just for that moment,
because the photo he snapped was the most incandescently perfect still image he
could have hoped for. Link's figure, frozen forever in the frame of Neah's
screen, stood with enraptured poise, his face buried into the soft fold of
Allen's shirt.
Link began to straighten up. Barely daring to breathe, Neah watched as Link's
fingers fisted hard into Allen's shirt as he yanked himself away from it, he
shoved the article into his own backpack in a hurried, ashamed gesture.
Realizing Link was about to make his escape, Neah backed up into the nearest
closet very quickly, out of sight. He held his breath, listening for the rapid
pittetpatter of Link's footsteps briskly racing down, down, down the hallway.
He stayed there long after he was certain Link was already gone, clutching his
phone to his chest and reveling in that which he'd just witnessed.
It was nice, knowing there was someone in this grotesque little town just as
grotesque as Neah himself.
Really, really fucking nice.
 
===============================================================================
 
Neah thought about Link all night, examining and reexamining his accidental
purveyance with such fascination and such dedication that sleep became a
secondary concern. He staggered awake twenty minutes too late, Katerina
knocking on his bedroom door to scold him into consciousness. Fumbling on his
buttons, he threw his uniform on, hopping on one foot to wrangle with his shoe
as he pushed the front door open with one hand.
Neah took his bike again, but instantly wished he hadn't; today was cold,
making the upwards breeze off his bicycle just barely tolerable.
Steadily, the clouds meandered their way down from the cycle path to the
bridge. They were practically black, heavy with the promise of rain. Behind
them, the sky had turned uniformly gray. Teflon gray. Cordite gray. Magnum
pistol gray. Gray like the underpass, gray like the raging river itself,
running its monotone course through town another two miles down.
He locked his bike by the gate and went to his desk immediately. Howard Link
was already sitting at his desk, nose in a book. His expression was calm.
Guiltless. Neah squirmed in his seat, practically shaking with the thrill of
secrecy.
First period passed Neah by in a blur. From her perch up above, their teacher
went on and on in a breathy monotone about French expressionism, and Neah
didn't hear a goddamn word. He could do nothing but fix his eyes on the
graceful slope of Link's neck— the point where his nape became his shoulders.
Once or twice, Neah found himself glancing down at his phone from underneath
his desk. For seconds at a time, he would stare ecstatically at the the
photograph he'd snapped of Link. It really was a beautiful picture. The perfect
representation of Link's crimes. Link's abandon, Link's weakness, Link's sick
passion. You could even make out the first half of the word Walkerif you knew
to look for it.
The most interesting thing a boy like that can do is suffer.Until yesterday,
this was something he'd truly believed— and he found himself repeating those
same words in his head again and again and again, testing them, toying with
them, taking them to each of their logical extremes.
He'd been wrong about Link. Wrong about the kind of boy Link was. An error in
judgement he would not make twice, now that he knew better.
Who'd have guessed that Neah and Link were cut from the same cloth, after all?
After all, Link was a closet pervert, and what was a pervert but a dark
sensualist— a man held hostage by his dreams? Neah, too, was possessed by some
foul dreams. Dreams that existed in the dark woods beyond the norms and
expectations of society. Neah, too, was perverse.
The only difference was that Link smothered his perversion behind a mask of
normalcy.
An awful waste, truly.
Neah wanted to see that mask fall. He wanted to see it splinter into a thousand
tiny pieces. He wanted it to shatter between his teeth like hard candy. He
wanted to expose the sickness beneath.
To reveal the beast beneath. That, he decided, was the most interesting thing a
boy like Link could do.
Just before second period started, Allen Walker jumped up from his seat and
went to the front of the class. Link shut his book, lifting his head to watch
Allen. In turn, Neah lifted his head to study Link.
"Hey, I forgot my gym shirt in the boy's locker room yesterday," Allen called
out. "I went to check this morning, but I couldn't find it. If anyone sees it,
let me know?"
Link stared at Allen. He bit his lower lip, worrying the flesh with his teeth.
Neah held his breath, waiting to see what he'd do, how he'd answer.
Then, without saying a single word, Link opened his book back up and returned
to the same page he'd been reading. Allen returned to his desk, around which
Lenalee, Lavi, and Kanda were jockeying, making idle, vapid conversation. Neah
was very nearly moved to the point of tears. It took every shred of his self-
control to keep himself from standing up and clapping.
My dear, sweet Howard Link , Neah thought .Oh, you are glorious! Bravo, my
dancer in the dark! Bravo!
===============================================================================
 
"Yo, golden boy," Neah whispered at the sound of the lunch bell. He leaned
forwards in his seat to speak directly against the shell of Link's ear. Link
startled. Neah couldn't blame him. They'd been in the same classes for all of
ten years, and this was the first time Neah had ever initiated conversation
with Link.
Link turned around in his seat slowly. His brown eyes were flashing with a wary
iciness.
"Can I help you?" He asked. He spoke with an air of intense politeness that
promised nothing. The specific tone and timbre of his voice carried that air
beautifully— he had a deep, mellifluous voice. Mature. It suited him very
nicely.
"I need to talk to you," Neah said. He leaned forwards on his elbows, unable to
keep himself from preening.
"Well, we're talking right now." Link frowned uncertainly.
"I need to talk to you alone, dipshit," Neah rolled his eyes. Link blinked,
looking taken-aback. Whatever. "Come with me into the library, okay?"
Link frowned, hesitating. He glanced across the classroom, where Tokusa and
Madarao were filing out of their desks to grab their lunch— and then to Allen,
all-shining and all-laughing.
"It'll only take five minutes," Neah said. Impatient, he reached out to jab
Link in the ribs, fighting for his full attention. "Trust me, it's important."
Link dragged his eyes away from the door to look at Neah reluctantly. Something
in Neah's eyes must have unsettled him, because he shifted uncomfortably
beneath his gaze. His lips pursed into a thin line, brows drawing together in a
look of vague confusion. Clever boy sensed something was amiss. Well, he'd find
out just what very, very soon.
"Alright," he agreed, teeth worrying the pink flesh of his lower lip. "If you
insist."
Neah grinned wolfishly.
"Excellent."
He jumped up at his desk and swung his legs over it, yanking Link to his own
feet with a hand on his sleeve. Link spluttered and stumbled upright,
staggering forwards into a quick walk and Neah lead him out the classroom and
down the hall.
"Not so fast," Link protested, wriggling under Neah's vice-like grip in an
attempt to wrench his arm free, but Neah was resolute. Rounding the corner, he
tightened his hold to loop around Neah's wrist, practically dragging him down
helplessly as they walked.
Lovely little Link would have to get used to being Neah's to control, sooner or
later. Why not start now?
The library was empty, like it always was at this hour. Good. Neah dragged Link
down the aisles, seeking the most remote, desolate stack possible. Link trudged
after Neah, resigned to be corralled about like a horse in need of a tether.
Neah settled on a spot in the non-fiction section, between biology and
psychology textbooks from the 80s that have likely never been checked out since
the day they were first shelved.
Neah turned to face Link.  The library smelled of aging paper, mildew, and
dust. The result was an usual potpourri, especially when combined with the
lingering sweetness of the ancient librarian's perfume— a spiced-up carnation
concoction with troubled notes of cardamom and turmeric. Among it all was Link,
framed among the shelves with a nervousness that succeeded in being quite
charming. Brows still quirked, mouth still drawn into that quizzical line,
standing, just standing, not knowing what judgement would befall him.
Neah leaned forwards, heart racing.
"I saw you yesterday," he said in a low, conspiratorial whisper. "I saw you
steal Allen's gym shirt."
Link's narrow eyes went very, very wide. For a long, breathless moment, he
didn't move a muscle. Neither did Neah. He was terrified of disrupting the
spell; his moment of power.
Oh, Link's look of complete shock, it was just priceless!
"Excuse me?" Link said. He sounded like he was trying very, very hard indeed to
keep his cool. How admirable. Such a shame Neah saw right through it.
"You heard me," Neah said. He couldn't keep himself from smiling, a sharp,
nasty thing; no love, only teeth. "I saw the way you were sniffing it, too.
You've really got it hot for the little fucker, don't you?"
Reflexively, Link took a step back. The whites of his eyes were showing very
clearly, betraying his panic.
"You've got the wrong idea," he choked out. "I found it. I was going to return
it to him. As a favor."
Neah hummed, moving to close the distance Link had so valiantly attempted to
create.
"Is that so?" Neah's eyes roamed over Link's face carefully. There was a red
tint to Link's brown eyes, like rust, or dry blood. How curious. "Were you
going to return it today?"
"Yes!" Link breathed. "Yes, of course."
"Fine. Then it must be in your bag, right?" Neah smiled. "I mean, if you were
gonna return it today, you must have it with you today. Just take me to your
locker and show it to me. If you can do that, I'll leave you be."
Link didn't move a fucking muscle.
"Unless you took it home with you, that is," Neah went on, voice lowering an
octave.
Link didn't say a fucking word.
"That's what I thought," Neah said softly. He reached into his pocket for his
phone, thumbing the lock open with an idle swipe. "Look. I even managed to get
a picture. Wanna see?"
Link's face was gaunt, blank. He trembled like dry leaves in a heavy wind.
"No way."
Neah pulled the photo up, lifting his phone so that Link could see.
"You see that, Howard? That's your face, all crushed up against Allen's sweaty,
unwashed uniform. Isn't that gross?" Neah pressed one hand to his lips, tracing
his own catlike smile with one finger. "And to think you took it home with you,
too. Gosh, what did you do with it? Rub it all over your body? Keep it under
your pillow while you slept? Wrap it around your dick while you—"
"None of that is true!" Link cried out, exploding with mortified outrage. His
face was flushing bright, bright red— a blaze of a blush. Remembering himself,
he lowered his voice. "Don't be— don't be so crude."
"Wow, am I really the crude here? You know, I think Allen might disagree if he
saw this picture." Neah tap the home button of his phone, and the screen went
dark with the sound of a shutter. "My oh my, who knows what he'd think of you?"
Link was very still, but his eyes roved over Neah frantically, bouncing up from
his feet to his face with astonished furor.
"What do you want from me?" Link said. His tone was carefully constructed, but
all the same, Neah could see he was desperate. Beaten. Neah's smile widened,
loving Link all the more for this capitulation.
"I'm not here to hurt you, Link. In fact, I think I can help you," Neah said.
"But first, let's make a deal. A contract, if you will."
"A contract?"
"I'll keep your secret. I won't even make any other copies of this picture,
right here," "In exchange... you do whatever I want, whenever I want it."
Link's eyes went wide, then narrowed abruptly. His posture was ramrod straight,
even now, not sagging for a minute. He had a spine.
"Do I make myself clear?" Neah said when Link didn't immediately respond. Link
gave him a long, impassive look.
"I don't believe I'm being offered a choice."
"Then the contract is sealed," Neah grinned. He darted forwards, grabbing
Link's hand to squeeze it for a moment. Link attempted to squirm away, but once
more, Neah's grip proved indomitable.  "Now, listen carefully, Link. Here's
your first order. Meet me at the front gate once school is over. You and I are
gonna take a little trip."
===============================================================================
 
The riverside was a fifteen minute walk from the school. On bike, it took just
a little over five minutes. Link walked to school, which meant there was only
one bike between the two of them. With this in mind, Neah decided they would go
on foot. He guided his bike alongside the both of them as they walked, up the
main road and towards the highway, up the hill and over the bridge the river
ran beneath.
A narrow trail was etched into the hill face like bunting on the side of a
wedding cake, a switchback stone-and-mud path that zigzagged down the slope,
under the black bridge, and down to the edge of the dirty river. Near the top,
the trail had been washed out by March's flashflood rains, and the stone was
smooth and bare. The path grew wilder and more unkempt the further you climbed
down, with thickets of wild grass, brown shrubbery, and overgrown dandelions
snarling upwards to catch underneath Link and Neah's feet.
Neah lead the way, crashing through tall grasses and low shrubs, thin dry
branches catching him and thwacking back to smack Link. When the path grew too
steep to continue, Neah hurtled from a large rock to another some six feet
down, skidding his way hectically down the rocky riverbank.
Straightening up, Neah wiped his muddy hands against his knees. He turned and
waited for Link to make the leap and follow him. Link didn't, not at first. He
stood with one foot planted at the edge of the hillside, looking ill at ease.
“Don’t be such a fucking pussy,” Neah yelled out over the sound of the gray
river. "Jump down!"
Link toed at the overgrown undergrowth, delicately prying a fine-bristled burr
from the upper thigh of his slacks.
“Don't be rude,” he said, but he didn't dare raise his voice to Neah and it
came out in a self-fulfilling pussy little sotto, a pussy little mewl. Neah
could barely hear his pussy little boy voice over the crashing, raging current
of the river. "This is dangerous, Neah. One of us could easily slip and fall
in."
"Oh, come on! You think Allen wants to fuck a scared little boy?" Neah called
out, loud, and Link flinched. Probably terrified that someone, somewhere, might
somehow be listening, that his perverted little obsession might be exposed.
"Jump down, or I'll tell our whole class about how you spy on Allen in the
boy's changing room."
Link colored, red as roses. "I don't— "
"How you go home every day and jerk off in the shower, thinking about his pale,
skinny, adolescent body..."
"I don't! I don't, and you know I don't— "
"For God's sake, you fucking coward, just jump down!"
Link hesitated, blanched.
Then, with unspringing caution, he jumped down. He didn't stumble across the
slick stones like Neah had expected he would. Instead, there was a careful
grace to his movements. Neah was almost disappointed. It would've been funny,
seeing Link trip. It would've been really, really fun if Link fell over and
into the sweep of the river. Neah would have liked to see Link soaking wet.
He'd look like a drowned puppy, for sure.
Link came over to Neah's side, looking wary.
"It's okay,"  Neah said. "Hey, hey. Don't you fret, Howie. Your secret is safe
with me."
"It's not a secret," Link said, tone impressively level. Laudably, really. "To
be a secret, it would have to be true. None of that was true."
"Hey, you can trust me, Link. I don't mind at all. I don't even mind if you rub
Allen's uniform all over your body when you're alone. I don't even mind if you
choke yourself on it, licking and sniffing while you rub one out."
Link's blush didn't fade, not for a minute, but he didn't splutter or shout
like Neah thought he might. He just looked at Neah steadily, hard-eyed and
tight-lipped with controlled, purposeful anger.
"I can't tell if you're a compulsive liar, a sadist, or genuinely delusional."
"None of the above," Neah said. He grinned. "I'm an altruist, Link. I'm here to
help you."
Link pushed his bangs out of his face and frowned uneasily.
"I find that difficult to believe."
Neah rolled his eyes.
"Listen, Link. Here's the thing. I know you better than you know yourself," he
said. "That's why you need my help. That's why we're here today."
Neah stepped down over the rocks, right to the edge of the river. The water
lapped gently against the tips of his black school-issue shoes.
"Hardly anyone ever comes out here, and nobody ever comes down to the
riverbank. Even if someone was walking up there, over the bridge," Neah pointed
to the highway moving through the mountains, "they wouldn't be able to hear us
down here because of the water."
Rushing river, crushing river, crashing river, dashing river. Link stalled,
eyes flickering to the water, to the bridge above them, to Neah's feline smile.
"What, precisely, is this in service of?" He asked.
"It mean I can say whatever the hell I want," Neah said. He cupped his hands
around his mouth and yelled, loud enough that Link flinched, "Howard Link is a
sick fucking pervert! Link wants Allen Walker's mouth around his dick!"
"Stop!" Link said immediately, voice raw with horror. He glanced about wildly,
desperately seeking out an imaginary crowd of witnessing onlookers.
"Nobody can hear us," Neah repeated, rolling his eyes at Link's self-conscious
terror. He turned to face Link, stepping in very close, close enough that he
could observe the frenzied dilation of Link's pupils. "In fact, I think it'd be
good if you did a little yelling too, Link. Come on. Tell the world what a big,
horny sicko you are. Admit it. I bet it'll feel good."
For a brief moment, Link seemed to stop breathing. He was blushing red from his
neck to his ears.
"I'm not..."
"This is an order , Link," Neah said, edging in close, as close as he could
come without brushing up against Link. This close, he could make out the shade
and nuance of each individual eyelash. They fluttered up and down from his
cheeks to his brow, alarmed, like frightened butterflies.  "I'm not asking, I'm
tellingyou to do this. Unless you want to break our contract?"
Link looked at Neah helplessly. Their eyes held, catlike gold into bloody,
murky brown.
Then, Link's gaze flickered away, eyes falling to his feet. He feigned interest
in the damp stones and weeds beneath his feet, unable or unwilling to meet
Neah's expression of happy savagery.
"I made a thoughtless mistake," he said, soft yet certain. Annoying. Annoying,
annoying, prissy, pussy little boy.  "That is  my problem. One thoughtless,
ridiculous mistake in the heat of the moment. The rest is your deranged
imagination. I''m not... what you said."
"You see this picture?" Neah fumbled for his phone, swiping through his
password rapidly. Roughly, he yanked up the photograph of Link standing in the
dark. "You see that? That's one hell of a mistake, Link! But you must have
enjoyed it, right? It certainly looks like you were enjoying it."
Link glanced away immediately, craning his neck away. Doing everything in his
power to avoid the ugly, nasty truth that was staring him directly in the face.
All the same, Link stepped down next to Neah, facing the river. It surged
before them, a silent witness, flushed and swollen with the hot rains of early
spring.
“Go ahead and yell it out,” Neah said. He waggled his phone, a silent taunt.
“Come on, Howie. Howie, Howie, Howie. I won’t tell anybody.”
Link looked at the river. There was an uncharacteristically intense look in his
eyes.
"I'm in love with Allen Walker!" He yelled, loud and clear. The sound of it
traveled far across the river, echoing out into the mountains, across the
highway. Into the Something and the Nothing and their shitstack of a town. He
rounded on Neah then, the look in his eyes hardening into something cold and
resolute. Like ice. "I love him, and you can't even possibly understand what
that feels like."
Something like rage began to swirl in Neah’s gut; a white-hot, flaming heat to
rival Link’s inpenetrable frost.
Oh, that stupid, stupid, stupid little boy!
"Bullshit," Neah snarled. He grabbed Link by the collar, shoving his phone into
his face so close that Link couldn’t possibly look away.  "This look like love
to you, huh? You wanna fuck him, don't you?"
"Don't be disgusting,” Link snapped back. He shrugged off Neah’s hands in one
violent motion, but did not back up. "What I feel for him isn't so cheap. So
obscene.”
"Yeah, this right here looks real pure to me!" Neah’s phone was trembling in
the grip of his hands. He’d never felt so frustrated in his entire life—
stupid, lying, cowardly Link! Neah took a slow breath. " My name is Howard
Link, and I'm a big, horny sicko.Say it, or I forward this picture to everyone
in our class."
Link froze.
“You’re joking.”
“Say it right now!” Neah said, agitated. “Say it right now, or it’s all over.
You want Allen to know what you’ve done?”
Link said nothing, for a long moment. Neah watched him, eyes wild with
anticipation. He realized, just then, that his breathing had grown ragged, and
his pulse was hammering. When had that happened? Probably the moment Link had
tried to do something as stupid as bring loveinto this.
As if something as rare and indescribably beautiful as love could ever exist in
this shitheap of a town! It’d be like expecting a flower to blossom in a barren
field. A vivid red rose in an endless field of mud. Maybe on the other side of
mountains, there could be such thing as love. But not here. All the good,
shining things— this town swallowed them up and choked the life from them.
Idiot boy. Idiot Link.
He’d learn soon enough.
"My name is Howard Link,” Link said lifelessly, staring down at the shining
stones. “I'm a big, horny sicko."
Neah frowned.
"You don't sound like you mean it."
"You can make me say whatever you'd like, Neah,” Link said steadily. He looked
up, meeting Neah’s eyes with a clarity and a determination that was… a little
astonishing, really. “But I'm afraid you can't make me believe it."
Neah stared at Link. Link stared back, unafraid, muddy red-brown into gold. A
stray dog and a feral cat.
“It’s the truth,” Neah said.
“It’s not."
Neah slapped Link dead in the face.
“Say it again,” Neah said.
Link dragged his eyes back to meet Neah’s. Stubborn boy. Stupid boy.
“I’m a big, horny sicko,” Link said. This wasn’t a confession. It was a
recitation.
Neah slapped him a second time.
“Again!”
“I’m a big, horny sicko.”
Say it like you mean it, you stupid fucking coward!
Neah raised his hand a third time. Link flinched.
Pathetic!
Neah hesitated. His fingers curled up tentatively. Slowly, without so much as
laying a finger on Link, he lowered his hand back to his side. Link let out a
visible sigh of relief.
"Oh, you're a stubborn thing, aren't you?" Neah said. He smiled, hard and
unkind. "This will be harder than I thought."
"What will?"
"Getting you to drop your mask."
"That's absurd," Link said. "There is no mask."
Neah went ahead and delivered that third slap. Link had gone ahead and
squandered what little mercy he had earned.
"Go home," he said. "We'll continue this another day."
Link reached up to touch his own cheek. There was a blankness in his
expression, one that actually managed to scare Neah a little. Neah realized,
then, just how eerily unaffected Link had been by Neah's violence. He'd taken
it with the mute humility of a boy who was used to being slapped around and a
little resigned to it.
"Another day?" Link said. He frowned, hand still cupping his bright red cheek.
"Are you not satisfied?"
"Whatever I want, whenever I want," Neah said. "That was the contract."
He turned around and began to climb his way up back to his bike.
All the while, his palms itched with rage.
I love him, and you can't even understand what that feels like.
Link was right, and that stung.
===============================================================================
 
Neah waited two days to deliver his next order.
This order, he decided, would be best given in the morning. He decided to catch
Link before he left the house. He woke up early, dressing and eating hurriedly.
Katerina hadn't even woken up by the time Neah was throwing his bag over one
shoulder and unlocking his bike.
He rode down to Link's house, the big, beautiful white house on the highest
hill. There was no car in the driveway when he arrived, meaning that Link's
uncle, Mr. Leverrier of the town's one and only accounting firm, had already
left for the office. That was good. That meant Neah and Link would have some
privacy.
He ditched his bike by the road and ran up to the front door, already giddy
with power. Impatient, he rang the doorbell three times in quick succession;
the result was a series of manic, messy trills. As fitting a harbinger for
Neah's presence as anything.
Link was already dressed when he answered the door, looking as clean and sharp
as ever in his school uniform: white shirt, black blazer, black slacks, black
shoes. The deep blue of his tie provided a singular but still muted splash of
color. Neah never wore the tie, or the blazer for that matter. Neah glanced
over Link's shoulder and into his home. He could see into Link's kitchen, a
perfectly white room, like an empty box. On the table was a pot of espresso and
a set of lack china cups and a box of Italian biscotti. A newspaper was folded
into quarters, well-creased. Light spilled into the cavernous hallway through
the open front door.
"Neah," Link said. Shock flashed in his eyes for a moment. Then, he threw a
curtain of cool neutrality over his expression. He did a fair job of
maintaining this detached blankness, but his hand curled around the doorknob a
little tighter, like he was thinking of shutting it right in Neah's face.
"Good morning," Neah said cheerfully. He waited for a long moment, during which
Link barely moved, just stood there with a look of silent dread. Neah cleared
his throat. "Aren't you going to wish me a good morning?"
Neah waited. Link sighed.
"Good morning, Neah," he said politely. Then, with a rueful little expression
that was already expecting the worst, he asked, "Is there something I can do
for you?"
Neah beamed. He leaned in against the side of Link's front stoop, strategically
placing himself so that he could easily catch the door with one foot if Link
tried to close it.
"You know what, Link? There is something you can do for me," Neah said.
Link rolled his cuff up to expose a silver watch. He frowned down at it.
"And I suppose this somethingcannot wait until later?"
"Oh, it really can't," Neah said. "In fact, I'm very glad I was able to catch
you before you left. You see, Link, you really disappointed me by the river the
other day. I thought I might be able to get an honest reaction from you. But
you're more stubborn than you look, aren't you?"
Link's expression went hard, like he'd just tasted something very sour. He
didn't move to interrupt Neah though, which Neah appreciated. Neah continued, a
strange smile working itself up over his face.
"Luckily, I was able to think of a way for you to make it up for me. A very
special, very simple little way. Now, I'm about to give you an order, Link. Are
you ready to hear it?"
Link didn't say anything, just stared at Neah guardedly. Neah was becoming
familiar with this little face. To him, it meant yes.
Giddy, Neah leaned in very close, so close he could feel the startled pull of
Link's breath against his cheek. He moved to whisper directly into Link's ear,
so close his lips nearly grazed the clear skin of his neck.
"Link, you're going to go back inside and put Allen's gym shirt on underneath
your clothes. And you're going to wear it to school. All. Day."
===============================================================================
 
The last of the spring rain came down that day, cold and wet. From his seat
near the window, Neah watched the rain gutters swell with water and overflow.
The surging of the water matches his mood, which was rising and flooding like
the last movement of an operatic symphony.
In the seat in front of him, Link is sitting and staring at the blackboard with
a ramrod straight spine. At a glance, he looked the same as always, his broad
shoulders clad in his black blazer, neat braid falling against his back in a
perfect, perfect plait. Neah was only able to spot the difference because he
knew where to look.
Just at the collar of his shirt, only faintly visible, was the grey hint of
Allen's shirt, hidden beneath his everyday uniform like the shameful secret it
was.
There was no way for Link to ignore it or forget about it, and Neah relished
that. Allen's shirt was just a little too small, a little too tight, and Link
was surely being constricted with every movement he made. A reminder of his
perversion. Of his crimes against Allen. His hands shook a little over his
textbooks, and whenever Madarao or Tokusa or another friend addressed him, he
sounded uncharacteristically distracted, to the point that one girl even asked
if Link was feeling alright.
"I might be coming down with something," Link had said. "I'm sure it's nothing
to worry about."
Liar, Neah thought. He bounced in his seat, exhilarated. Liar, liar, dirty
little liar!
Link didn't stare at Allen once, either. In fact, he seemed to desperate to
avoid Allen's eyes, even when Allen drifted over for a short conversation.
"You're doing great," Neah whispered in Link's ear as the lunch bell rang.
"Meet me at the gate after school again."
Link gripped his pen all the tighter and, helplessly, he shivered.
===============================================================================
 
At the gate, Neah instructed Link to take off his backpack and sit on it. Link
did, watching Neah circle the bicycle expectantly. He slid up behind Link,
finding there was just barely enough room. He kept his own bag on, and slung
Link's over the handlebars carefully.
"Take us to the river," Neah said, He tucked his chin on top of Link's
shoulder, wrapping his arms around Link's waist for balance. Link startled
against Neah, perhaps embarrassed, but made no attempt to shrug Neah's hands
off. "Be quick about it, too. I won't tolerate laziness, Howard. Not from you."
"You don't tolerate much, do you?" Link asked. He gripped the handlebars tight,
eyes on the road ahead of them. He kicked off the breaks, started peddling. The
road whispered against the wheels of their bicycle, little pieces of broken
asphalt catching here or there and causing the tires to hiss.
"On the contrary," Neah said, laughing gently, feeling the reverberation of
that sound travel over Link's body. Link, Neah was realizing, was more athletic
than he'd first thought. Pedaling for the weight of two could hardly be an easy
task, but Link maneuvered them down the road like it was nothing. Commendable,
really. "God, I put up with so much. I'm a saint, really. Really. You're all
lucky I'm this patient. If I wasn't, I'd be something much, much worse."
"You're already awful," Link said crisply. Neah let out a breathy little gasp.
"How rude, Link! You really ought to treat your friends with more respect."
"Are we really friends?" Link wondered out loud. His was breath a little short.
How cute.
Link turned the corner, the bike speeding down a residential road and sloping
out onto the main road. Neah could hear the crickets chirping from the uncut
grass. Polystrone crunched beneath their wheels; trash floating down the road
from an overturned dumpster a half-block down. The sky, bright and blue and as
empty as it was vast.
"Of course we're friends," Neah said. He pressed his nose to the small of
Link's back and breathed in deep, loving the sweet, soapy scent of Link's
uniform-issue button-down, loving the thrilling knowledge of what he was
wearing beneath it. "Friends keep each other's secrets, don't they?"
The road went on and on beneath their battered wheels, nightmarishly black
where the tarmac was at its freshest. Link turned them off the main road, onto
the highway. They were skirting past the edge of town. They were close, now, to
the riverside. Neah could smell the cool note of freshwater in the air, sweetly
dampening the wind in his hair.
"Well, I don't know any of your secrets," Link said eventually. The wind was
cold, but Link's body was warm. Neah pressed in close, chasing that faint heat.
"Would you like to?"
"I don't know," Link said. He continued pedaling, abdominal muscles tense as
tightrope where Neah's arms were looped across them. "It was only a thought."
Neah hummed.
"I wouldn't mind telling you," he said. "But only because we're such good
friends."
"You really don't have to do that," Link demurred.
"Hey," Neah said. "It's fine. I want to tell you. Okay?"
Link didn't say anything. Just kept pedaling down the long road, crossing over
the tracks and mounting up, up, up the hillside. Neah could hear the river,
stretching out through narrow valleys. It ran as far as the eye could see,
carving a path through the mountains, water running swiftly over glossy black
stones, pipes, and gleaming scraps of upstream trash.
"One day, I'm gonna leave this all behind," Neah whispered. Eyes on the
thistles and weeds and waste that fenced the long road in, yellow and brown.
With one hand, he pointed over Link's shoulder, sketching a vague outline over
the distant mountains with his index finger. "I'm gonna travel far, far away,
way past those mountains, and I'm never coming back. Not ever."
Link was still silent. Still, Neah knew that he'd listened, and that he was
thinking about it. He wrapped his arms around Link a little tighter. Link's
flat stomach was twitching beneath his arms. His firm back  was sliding up
against Neah's chest. Warm-bodied, sweet-smelling, sick-minded, perverted,
pathetic, wonderful Link. Neah's eyes fluttered shut.
There was a peculiar pleasure in being so physically close to another human
being. Neah had never known, not until now.
Suddenly, they skidded to a halt. Neah opened his eyes. They'd breaked at the
center of the bridge, the side of bike resting right up against the railing.
The river was roaring directly beneath them.
"We're here," Link said. He was steadying them with one foot planted firmly
against the asphalt. Neah leaned back.
"So we are."
They climbed off the bike and ditched it by the side of the road. Neah climbed
over the railing and down the hill. Link followed without a word. Having made
the trek once before, he was a little more confident now. When Neah said
"Jump!" Link jumped, landing on both feet with a curiously arabesque grace.
They skidded down to the river shore together.
Neah sat down on a big rock, legs tucked underneath him. Link watched him,
looking expectant.
"Hey, quit gawking," Neah said. "You'll make a boy nervous. Christ."
Link opened his mouth like he was about to say something, then apparently
thought the better of it. He sat down across from Neah, right on the edge of an
ancient, dry sewage pipe.
"This is nice, isn't it?" Neah asked. He looked at Link, the hint of gray
poking out from underneath his white shirt collar. It made something stir low
in his gut. Neah wasn't quite sure what it was, but it was hot and heavy. Link
frowned, steepling his fingers over his lap. Link's hands were long and short-
nailed, and he articulated them with unusual care.
"Are we just going to sit here?"
"For now," Neah said. For the time being, he was happy enough just to stare at
Link's neck and collar, eyes hungry for that sliver of gray, a sliver of a
crack in Link's mask. Soon, just peeping through the crack wouldn't be enough,
but for now, it was heaven.
"I see," Link said. "Had I known, I'd have brought my bag down with me."
"Oh, yeah? What for?"
"Well, studying," Link said. "We have provincial exams in about a month,
remember?"
"Pfft," Neah said. He leaned back against the rock face, laughing. "C'mon. Ease
up a little, golden boy."
"Ease up? Around you? Unlikely," Link said. Neah laughed again.
He liked being alone with Link.
"Have you... really never left town?" Link asked, sudden but genuine, like he
really wanted to know and couldn't hold back from asking. Neah frowned. He
shook his head, no. "Hm."
He pushed up off the stony pipe, standing up at full height. Link really was
sort of pretty, Neah thought, in this sort of flat, fading light. It made the
sharp contours of his face look a little softer, and rather than austere, the
hard line of his brows now seemed pleasantly quizzical.
"About an hour and a half down the highway, there's a big chain of shopping
outlets," Link said, pointing across the bridge and down the eastbound highway.
His arm rotated to gesture vaguely over the sweeping mountains. "Over beyond
those hills, it's mostly farmland. If you continue to drive alongside the
creek, you should eventually reach North Bay. There isn't much to see there,
though."
Link turned around, squinting against the sunlight as he pointed back towards
town. "If you drive about four hours in the other direction, you should
eventually reach Ottawa. Two more, and there's Montreal."
Link glanced back at Neah expectantly. Neah realized, somewhat belatedly, that
he'd gone incredibly quiet.
"You make it sound like escape is impossible," Neah gritted out, speaking only
to fill silence. Internally, he was reeling. For so long, he'd been fixated on
the thought of running away, but he'd never once given thought to where he
might possibly run to.
"That was never my intention," Link said. "I'm simply letting you know what's
out there."
"What if I just keep going?" Neah asked.
Link frowned.
"I suppose you could drive up to Quebec City from Montreal," he said. "French
would be a considerable asset. I suppose you could also cross the border from
Granby into New York. Do you have a passport?"
Neah didn't have a passport. He didn't speak French, either. He also couldn't
drive, which was beginning to seem like a dizzyingly huge problem. He pushed
the thought from his mind, focusing on his growing irritation towards Link.
Link and all his questions. Link just didn't have the guts to imagine  life
outside this spitshit small town. He didn't have the imagination.
Link had the potential, Neah knew. The potential to be different. All he needed
was Neah's imagination. If Neah could lend him that, they'd be set.
Then, maybe, Link would come with him.
"Take your shirt and blazer off," Neah said, knowing it was abrupt and not
caring at all. Link froze up.
"Excuse me?"
"Just the shirt and blazer. I wanna see you in Allen's gym shirt," Neah said. A
twitch was beginning in his fingers, and for a bright, hysterical moment he was
tempted to pin Link to the ground and spread Link's shirt open himself. "That's
an order, Link!"
Even though it was an order, it took Link a long time to obey. He just kept
standing and hesitating, looking for an escape from the situation and finding
none. He started with his blazer, yanking it from his shoulders in one sharp
tug. His movements were quick, methodical, even janky— ashamed. He worked at
the buttons of his uniform shirt roughly, undoing them from the top down,
slowly exposing more and more of the truth beneath. Once he'd completely
removed them, he folded his shirt and blazer up, leaving them on the pipe he'd
sat on earlier.
Allen's shirt really was too tight on him, shifting over his body with every
twitch and flex of his body. It was clinging to him, to the slate of his
stomach, to the planes of his collar, to the tendons in his back.
Neah wasn't really sure what a 'good body' was, but he really liked looking at
Link's. He was broad-shouldered, but slight of frame, and there wasn't an inch
of fat on him.
Link stood there silently, wearing Allen's shirt, dressed in all his shame.
"How does it feel?" Neah asked. His mouth had gone dry. He was trying to keep
himself from laughing. He felt that if he started, he might never stop.
 "Allen's shirt, touching you in all the same places it used to touch Allen."
"It feels wrong."
"But you like it," Neah said. He could feel his heartbeat picking up, too fast,
too much. "I can tell. You little pervert. And you like it because it's wrong."
"I don't," Link said. He stared into the river. He was breathing hard. His
cheeks were pink. "I hatethis."
"You're blushing."
"You're despicable."
"You don't need to be embarrassed about your body, Link. Not in front of me. Do
you know why?"
"No."
"It belongs to me," Neah said breathlessly. "It's not yours to worry over. It's
mine."
Link said nothing. His chest seemed to heave forwards with every breath, like
he'd just run a mile.
"Bring it up to your nose," Neah said. The tone of his own voice shocked him.
It was low. Husky. "I want you to smell it. Your scent. Allen's scent.
Intermingling."
Hesitantly, Link gripped the hem of Allen's shirt. Slowly, as if moving through
water, he began to raise it. Neah could see a hint of flesh, there— and the
suggestion of Link's hips, the defined V of them. The hungry sensation from
earlier had returned, intense, animalistic.
Before the grey fabric could reach Link's nose, though, he dropped it abruptly.
His face was bright red. He looked like he might be sick.
"I'm going home," he said. His voice was tight, raw. Angry, even. He was
grabbing his clothes and hastily throwing them on, buttoning it up, fast and
sloppy.
Neah thought of forbidding him, of forcing an order, but he was afraid of what
else he might say if he opened his mouth and starting speaking. Overcome by a
strange mercy, he watched Link leave, trudging up the hill they'd slid down
together.
Today had been a success.
Neah put his hands over his belly, which burned and burned as if full of fire.
A strange and  unexpected success.
===============================================================================
 

Neah and Link returned to the river several times over the next two weeks.
Sometimes, Neah tested him, prodded him. Sometimes, they simply sat and talked,
and Neah was pleased to have someone listen to him ramble— even if that person
had no other choice.
On slow days, Neah would tell Link about music, about choreography, about
balletic orchestra, and how he was learning to compose. He told Link all the
best artists were outcasts— and suffered towards beauty. Link told Neah, in
clipped, hesitant tones that slowly moved into wildly gesticulated rants, about
baking, a surprise interest of his.
Once, Link came with a Tupperware of homemade almond squares. He'd wrapped one
in a napkin and handed it to Neah. The moment the sweet, crumbling pastry had
touched Neah's lips, he realized he'd been starving. His teeth closed around it
in an enormous, wolfish bite. He chewed ferociously, swallowed hard, and dove
back in.
He'd felt ravenous, then. He'd felt as though he was wasting away beneath the
soft, forgiving folds of his uniform shirt. He'd suddenly wanted to eat the
year away, to eat the spring and the summer and the fall.
Sitting at the shore with stone-faced Howard Link, Neah had wanted to wait and
watch the bright things grow and eat them, too, because it was better to
consume than to perish.
They never talked to one another at school, except for Neah to occasionally
whisper instructions in his ear. It was better that way. Link's friends would
never approve of Neah, and Neah didn't want anything to do with Link's friends
either. They were common. Boring. Link was his one and only diamond in the
rough— it was much, much better to have one perfect gem than a sack of flawed
stones.
Neah asked Link about Allen often; after all, this was the heart of Link's
madness.
"Walker is like an angel to me," Link confessed at one point, bending over to
watch the river lap against the shore. Neah hummed. There was a musical quality
to his laughter.
"Religious imagery? Really? How gauche, Link."
"Walker is kind," Link went on intently. "Good. Innocent."
"Nobody's innocent."
"Some people are." Link rounded on Neah, chin quivering with dignity. "Just not
you."
"Do you see yourself as innocent?" Neah asked.
"I suppose. I try my best for the people who are counting on me."
"But you're not inexhaustible," Neah said, leaning up to fix Link with an
intense stare. "Nobody can be completely unselfish. You must want things for
yourself, sometimes."
Neah's phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket, glancing down at
the caller ID. It was Katerina. Neah declined the call and stowed his phone
away again.
"I'm not certain I know what you mean," Link said carefully. Neah shrugged.
"At the end of the day, you need to live for yourself, I mean."
Neah's phone started ringing again. He declined it once more. Link frowned.
"Don't you need to answer that?"
"It's just Katerina," Neah said, shaking his head.
"Katerina?"
"My mother."
"Oh, Link said. "Do you two... not get along?"
"We get along just fine. She's actually a pretty good mother, I guess," Neah
said. He laughed. It was an odd, private little laugh. "You know, she deserves
better than a rotten son like me."
"If she's really a good mother, I doubt she'd think that," Link said, softer
than expected.
Neah thought he heard a edge of wistfulness in his voice. Maybe even envy. He
thought back to Link's big, white, empty house.
"Where's your mother, Howie?"
"She's dead," Link said, frank and without self-pity. "I live with my uncle."
Neah stretched his legs out, chewing his lower lip. "How's he?"
"He took me out of foster care." Link's voice was downright reverent. "I owe
him everything."
Neah had seen Link's uncle around town before. Leverrier was a big man, severe
and imposing in his dark European suits. He had a thick old-world style
mustache, coarse hands with impeccably clean nails, and hard little eyes that
gleamed with a peculiar intelligence. He'd always seemed an unlovably austere
figure to Neah, but the more they talked, the more Neah was able to understand
the way Link saw him.
Leverrier, to Link, was powerful, severe, and more than a little foreboding,
but also downright magical. He was something like the character of Drosselmeyer
from The Nutcracker; menacing, to be sure, but intoxicating in his offers of
power and growth. With Leverrier's harsh, affectionless grooming came the
tantalizing promise of future grace. An opportunity for Link to eclipse the
circumstances of his birth and discover new strength.
Leverrier was a guide. A mentor. An ideal. To Link, he was everything— just not
a very good father, Neah knew.
"Dead mom, foster care..." Neah recited, counting Link's misfortunes off on his
fingers. "Sounds like a rough time. Oh, you're also gay. That's gotta be a
struggle, right?"
"I... don't consider myself to be struggling," Link said loftily. He didn't
deny the gay part, though, which was probably progress. Relenting slightly,
Link asked, "Well, are you struggling, Neah?"
"What makes you ask that?"
"You keep saying you're going to escape. What, precisely, do you need to escape
from?"
Neah tucked his legs beneath him, suddenly wanting to fold himself up, to make
himself slight
"There's no room for people like me in this town," Neah said. "People who are
different. They don't understand. They never will. They're small, ordinary
people. They have small, ordinary minds. And I'm the next Stravinsky, you
know."
Link actually laughed at that, and it wasn't even an unkind laugh.
"Naturally."
"Anyways, there's nothing for me here," Neah said. "So I'm leaving. Any day
now, really."
His only reason to stay had been lowered into the earth a long, long time ago.
Link knew it, too, if the soft look he was giving Neah was anything to go by.
That  was something else to hate about this town. Everybody was always swarming
for gossip, and the death of a child had been the scandal of the year.
Link, at the very least, had the decency not to bring it up. He was good like
that, Neah's Link. He could sense the mood.
("Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, it's not myself that I see," Neah told
Link once in a fit of grief. Link had looked away immediately, as if to grant
Neah privacy, and a silent moment of understanding had passed between them like
a great gray cloud.)
Every day, Neah went home and listened to Tchaikovsky in his bedroom. He would
kick his feet up on the old desk his great-grandfather had built and think.
Something was changing. Something inside him was changing, something deep and
personal and essential. He felt like he was on the verge of becoming something
else, but he didn't know what.
Getting Link to reveal his true self would no longer be enough, he realized. He
needed Link to admit to his perversion of his own free will. He needed Link to
choose otherness, choose deviancy, to open his eyes and embrace the power of
the other side.
He needed Link to choose Neah.
He needed to choose Neah over the angels.
===============================================================================
 
It was a Tuesday when they got caught in the rain together.
They were on their way back from their kingdom by the river, riding on Neah's
bike when the first advance guard of a storm came thundering from overhead.
"This," Neah said, speakingly slowly and mock-seriously against the curve of
Link's back, "could be a problem, Howard."
"Perhaps," Link frowned.
As if to punctuate their conversation, lightning burst across the sky,
illuminating the both of them in a brief clap of ghostly white light. The rain
came down only a minute later, and it came down hard. The rain fell over them
in thick sheets, slapping down against them with so much force it was almost
painful. It soaked through their hair, their pants, Neah's shirt and Link's
black blazer. They ditched their bike by the side of the road, grabbed their
backpacks, and ran like madmen towards the nearest bus shelter.
Once safe inside, Neah started to laugh. It was hard to avoid. He was totally
fucking sopping, his white sleeves and black hair heavy with rainwater. It had
probably gotten into his backpack and make a mess of his textbooks. He didn't
care. He was bent at the waist laughing, giddy, alive, electrified.
He lifted his head then, grinning slyly. It was then that he got his first
proper glimpse of Link, soaking wet, panting hard, eyes bearing over Neah with
unblinking attention. His damp hair curled at his forehead and stuck to the
back of his neck, perfect braid coming untucked with the fierce shellacking of
wind and rain. His cheeks were flushed pink, clothes plastered to his body to
reveal the precise shape of it.
And then, Neah wasn't laughing anymore.
Link's mouth was moving. Neah wasn't listening. He could only breathe. Only
tremble. Something strange and potent was coming over him, as bright and as
intense as the hurricane ahead. It was seeping down into his bones, at once
shockingly cold and undulating in its warmth.
"Neah?" Link frowned, pushing his wet bangs back. "Are you listening?"
Neah swallowed hard.
"Are you feeling quite alright?" Link asked, voice tinged with a genuine thread
of worry.
Link stepped a little closer, wam and wet. Something in Neah caught, bent, and
broke.
"Hold me," Neah said, before he could even think it through.
Link stopped short. His eyes went very wide.
"What?"
"Hold me," Neah said again, voice catching. He looked at Link hard. His every
breath was shaking out of him in these shallow, jumpy little exhales. "Please."
Neah felt Link's eyes on him, prickling his skin, buttressing him. Neah stared
back, both challenging him and pleading with him. He was just so cold. So very,
very cold.  
"Do it right now or, or," Neah shivered violently, grasping for something,
anything that could convince Link, "I'll text Allen, right now. This is an
order, Link."
He started fumbling in his wet pockets for his phone, but Link raised both his
hands up, placating Neah. A rivulet of rain was running through the divet
between his nose and upper lip, lingering there for only a moment before
running down to settle over his lower lip. Link tongue darted, soft and pink,
and licked the raindrop away.
"Alright," he said. "As you wish."
He stepped up to Neah cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal. Neah
shivered, but did not run.
Time seemed to slow down when Link put his arms around him. They were damp,
freezing, but Neah could feel the persistent warmth of Link's body heat from
beneath the wet layers of their rain-soaked clothed. Neah put his head on
Link's shoulder. Link, disgusting, deviant, beautiful Link, slowly raised one
hand to cup the back of Neah's neck, supporting him. Reassuring him.
I'm here. This is real. I'm here. This is real. You're not alone, Neah.
"You couldn't have texted Allen if you wanted to," Link said later, once the
rain had ceased and they'd biked up to the front stoop of his house. "You two
aren't friends. There's no way you have his phone number."
Neah froze.
"Then why did you do it?"
"I don't know." Link was wringing water from his wet braid. "Because you asked
me to, I suppose. Or perhaps because... you seemed to need it."
"Oh," Neah said. Link cracked a small smile. Something in his eyes had changed.
They seemed curious. Rapacious.
"You know, Neah, every now and then, I'm shocked to remember just how human you
can be."
Neah touched his own cheeks and realized he was blushing. Link turned around,
then, and headed up the steps to his house.
Neah watched Link disappear through his front door, retreating back into that
huge, loveless castle. All the while, he touched his own rain-slicked lips with
his thumb.
He started thinking of other things he should have asked Link to do, alone in
the rain.
===============================================================================
 
That night, Neah dreamed he was sitting at his desk. Link was sitting right in
front of him, just as he always did. His beautiful braid hung between his
shoulder blades. He was facing away from Neah, staring up at the blackboard.
In the dream, Neah cut Link’s blonde braid off with a knife and ran away. He
ran out of their classroom, down the hall, and out the front gate. He ran all
the way home, breathless and giddy, lighter and happier than he’d felt in a
long, long time. Since before his brother's death.
(Mana, the sweet son. Mana, the hurt to Neah's rage. Mana, the one who
should've lived.)
In the dream, Neah escaped into Katerina’s garden. He closed the white wicker
gate behind him, sealing himself away from the world. Once alone, he collapsed
to his knees immediately, cradling his stolen prize. Link’s braid was soft and
downy and tufty. It was the colour of wheat. Neah crawled through the mud and
dirt, gasping and heaving, clutching Link’s sweet-smelling hair to his chest.
In the dream, he dug a shallow hole in the earth. He buried the braid. He
stayed in the garden for what felt like weeks. He watered it. He tended to it.
Then, miraculously, something began to sprout! Neah clawed through the dirt
curiously, and there emerged another Link, a Link that was Neah’s and Neah’s
alone!
They became lovers immediately. Link was obedient, pliant, and unabashedly
naked. When Neah said, “Kiss me!” Link kissed him. When Neah said, “Touch me!”
Link touched him. When Neah said, “Come for me!” Link came, better and hotter
than anything Neah could’ve imagined, head thrown back, lips parted, shaking
and moaning.
In the dream, Link undressed Neah with slow, reverent hands.
In the dream, Link fucked into Neah with shameless, open desire.
In the dream, Neah lost his virginity in his mother’s garden.
In the dream, Link understood him, accepted him, and, above all else, loved
him. Link was insatiable in his appetites, attentive in his affections, but
always calm and placating and serious with that measured brown-eyed stare.
And Neah loved him back, in the dream.
If they were both sickos, that was okay. If this town didn’t want them, that
was okay, too. It would all be alright, everything, because they could escape
together. It was love and sex and sickness and a promise;  the achingly
beautiful promise of a world where Neah would never have to be alone again.
And that was the dream. The only dream Neah would ever need.
He woke up blindingly hard.
My name is Neah Campbell, he thought hazily, reaching down into his sweatpants
to wrap a hand around his cock. I'm a big, horny sicko.
He panted against his pillow, pumping himself hard and fast. He was still
thinking of Link, Link's mouth, Link's back, Link's blonde hair, Link's poorly-
concealed expressions of desire— God! What he would give for Link to stare at
him that way, the way he stared at Allen. Thumbing over the slit of his cock,
he imagined what Link's own hands would feel like on him.
It was no longer enough to destroy Link's mask. Neah was desperate to claim
whatever lurked beneath. He wanted Link's dark passions, his sensuality and
sexuality, his obsessive wants. He wanted them all for himself. He hungered for
Link the way only dying men could hunger. He stroked himself at an uneven
speed, now, working his cock up and down at a frantic pace.
They could run away together. They wouldn't need anyone else. Neah would steal
Link away, would become the passionate black swan to Allen's sterile white, the
Odile to his Odette.
Neah came hot and hard in his sweatpants, moaning and crying out the name of
his perfect Prince Siegbert, Link, Link, Link.
 
===============================================================================

 At that point, Neah had made up his mind about Link.
Link was a pagan. An obsessive. An adoring pervert. He was a balletomane,
through and through, in the way that some ballet fanatics would pledge mad
devotion to one ballerina and observe her from afar, collecting bits of costume
tulle and obsessing over her performances. Allen Walker was his object of
worship, his mindless fantasy— in Link's own dreams, he had fetishized his
image of Allen so deeply it no longer truly resembled the reality. He didn't
love Allen Walker, Neah was sure, but his zealously constructed ideaof him. His
angel, as he'd once said, as well as his sex icon.
You couldn't love an idea. Of course you couldn't. You could only love things
that were real.
Neah was real.
And that would make all the difference.
That next Monday, Neah took his time at his seat, eyes roving over his braid,
neck, shoulders and back and waiting, waiting for the lunch bell to ring— his
chance to lean in and whisper in Link's ear. Periods one and two seemed to
stretch on forever, all exam revision drivel so slow that Neah found himself
drumming his fingers at the edge of his desk, anxious and impatient.
The moment the lunch bell tolled, Neah felt something in him go lax, relieved.
"Meet me at the front gate today," he said in a quick burst, leaning in towards
Link. "Let's go back to your place."
He was going to feel Link's arms around him again. This was an almost
unbearably heady thought. It kept him floating through the day, blurring,
blotting, soft at the edges.
"Why the sudden change of pace?"
"A change of pace can be nice," Neah said. "You uncle won't be home, will he?"
"Oh, no. He only gets home in the evening," Link said, shaking his head.
"Wonderful."
Neah smiled and smiled and smiled.
They walked up to Link's house together, Neah pushing his bike up, up, up the
hill and into the immaculately smooth driveway
He'd caught glimpses into Link's home before, but he'd never been inside. Once
he was, he realized it was everything he'd imagined it would be. Almost
everything was white, sometimes white on white, with the occasional allowance
for chrome, glass, or stainless steel. It had a modern look to it; bare and
Spartan, but intentionally so. Rather, it looked clean and classy, and it's
emptiness reflected an avantgarde minimalist aesthetic rather than any kind of
poverty. The white walls were impeccably clean. So were the linoleum floors.
Perhaps they hired a maid.
Link took off his shoes the moment he stepped into the threshold and arranged
them unobtrusively into the closet. Neah untied his own and kicked them off
haphazardly into the threshold. Link observed this petty rudeness with a shred
of annoyance, but didn't comment. Neah, after all, would be gone before
Leverrier even had the chance to judge.
Neah wandered down the hall into the kitchen. Bright, clean, and by all
accounts devoid of food.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Link offered. He was hovering  just behind
Neah, looking awkward and maybe a little nervous.
"You gonna fix me up a scotch, Howie?" Neah looked over at Link. "Hey, does
Leverrier ask you for that? To fix him a drink at the end of a long day? Maybe
fluff up his pillows, rub his feet?"
"No," Link said. His face screwed up, all pissy.
Neah sighed, relenting. He hadn't come here to rile Link up.
"Maybe a tea," he said. "I don't drink coffee."
It turned out that Link and Neah took their tea the same way; so drowned in
milk and sugar that it was practically syrup. Neah wandered about the main
floor with his tea, taking tiny sips as it cooled and taking great care not to
spill any onto the pristine white carpets.
"Where's your room?" He asked Link, curious, and Link brought him upstairs.
Link's room had that same look of emptiness to it. It was almost shocking. You
could count almost everything in it on one hand. There was Link's bed,
perfectly made-up and pressed into the corner of a room, a bookshelf (perfectly
ordered, possibly alphabetically),  and a fastidiously organized desk beneath a
medium-sized window. There wasn't much personality to it, outside of that
fastidious. No posters, no hobby goods, not even any meaningful clutter to
suggest a life outside that desk and that bed.
"You read a lot?" Neah asked. He wandered over to Link's shelf and pulled a
volume off with one finger. This was thick, cumbersome volume. Proust.
"As much as I can," Link said. He sat on the edge of his bed, watching Neah
prowl about the room with a look of vague suspicion. Neah hummed.
"What do you like to read?"
"Classics. Non-fiction." Then, as if embarrassed, "Poetry, I suppose.
Sometimes."
"Poetry?" Neah tucked the novel back into the wall. "What kind of poetry?"
"Ah," Link scratched the back of his neck. "Sylvia Plath. T.S. Eliot. Wallace
Stevens."
"Would you read some to me?" Neah asked, a little boy. Link seemed taken aback.
"If you bring me some, perhaps," he said. "I didn't think you'd be so
interested."
"I respect the tenets of poetry," Neah drawled, forefinger running across the
spines— some crackled with age, some some glossy in their plastic jacket.
"Passion, freedom, desire. I know you must think me a cynic, but these are the
ideals that drive me. Hey, how about this?"
He tugged a slender volume off the wall, one emblazoned with a name he vaguely
recognized. Link's eyes widened.
"Baudelaire?" He said incredulously. "Passionate stuff, to be certain, but...
well, he isn't very nice."
"Truth is another essential tenet of poetry," Neah said slyly, thumbing over
the binding of Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil with careless ease. "The truth
isn't always very nice, is it?"
"No," Link said, reluctant. "No, it often isn't."
Neah flipped the novel to the middle and slid it into Link's empty hands, a
strange, manic sort of excitement slowly taking over him.
"I came to terms with my truth long ago," Neah said. "It's always been deep
inside me, pulsating like a second heart."
"What... is this truth?" Link asked, voice catching in quiet hesitation.
Neah smiled. He consumed Link with his gaze, hot and heady, and then imagined
consuming him with his teeth, the beating crimson deep inside him.
"I can't say it," Neah said. "But maybe I can show you."
"How?"
"Read to me, golden boy."
Link looked up, just once. His eyes were flashing with a strange, nameless
emotion— Neah couldn't say what it was. It came and went, hot and bright, like
lightning, then disappeared entirely. Link looked down again, fringe falling
over his face, and began to read in a calm, measured tone.
"To swallow my appeased sobbing, I need only the abyss of your bed," Link
recited. His eyes were tracking over the page, hard and serious. Neah slid onto
the bed next to him, right by his side, and Link startled, just slightly. "A p-
powerful oblivion lives on your lips—"
Neah turned to watch Link, the both of them so close their thighs were
brushing. Neah could catch the warm hint of Link's scent, so close, but still
so far from him. Unbearably far.
"And all the Lethe flows in your kisses."
Link, Link, Link.
"I shall obey, as though predestined."
Abrupt and without fanfare, Neah climbed onto Link's lap. Flowers of Evil
collapsed from of Link's hands in silent shock, tumbling down to the floor with
a dull sound, forgotten. Link's speech stuttered and died out, caught in a
sharp breath of surprise that sent a curl of warmth to Neah's stomach.
Neah put his hands on Link's shoulder, knees bracketing Link's slender legs,
pressing in close until they were chest to chest. With each slight movement,
their thighs brushed, a sensation that was slickly intoxicating even through
the safe layers of clothing between them.
Neah leaned forwards, pressing his nose against Link's neck. He met the pale
point where the column of Link's throat met sloped into his shoulder and
breathed in deep. His was a pleasant scent— Neah's first thought was
aftershave, but Link was still too boyish for that, wasn't he? A shampoo, then,
or soap. The scent itself was an intriguingly floral provocation. This was a
glowing, creamy white hypnosis of mothball lilies, softer than it was indolic.
Neah closed his eyes, holding Link a little closer. Link's was a clean,
luminous smell. Like the sterile hands of an undertaker, or the innermost
sanctuary of a church.  Here was a musk-touched sweetness that managed to be
both alluring and totally sexless.
Neah decided Link would smell much, much better if he sweated that dead scent
out.
"Allen and I are about the same build," Neah said softly. "If you close your
eyes, you can pretend I'm him."
Link closed his eyes. Slowly, awkwardly, he put his hands on the small of
Neah's back. Neah's heart twisted. He was holding Link, and Link was holding
him back, though he was slavering through his half-baked fantasies of Allen.
Neah wondered what would happen if he ground down against Link's lap. Or placed
an open, wet kiss over his lips, blotted with the bloom of a bruise. Or reached
under the loose hem of Link's uniform shirt to feel his skin.
Instead, Neah just smiled. He held Link close, arms around his shoulders.
"You're such a creep," he said.
Link didn't say anything, but he did open his eyes. He seemed to be thinking
Neah's words over intently, mulling through them like spiced wine. He looked at
Neah directly, eyes sharp beneath angular brows, hands still holding firm to
Neah's waist. That struck Neah as odd, somehow. It was odd, but he liked it.
"You know, I'm a creep too," Neah added. His eyes flickered back down over
Link's mouth, pink and parted, his lower lip lush and lovely. He wasn't going
to kiss Link. But if Link wanted to close his eyes again and pretend he was
kissing Allen, Neah was sure he probably wouldn't mind. In that moment, he felt
he'd be okay with anything, so long as it involved Link's lips on his.
He was pretty sure he'd get hard if Link kissed him. Really, honestly.
Neah squirmed in Link's arms, ass grinding down over Link's lap. Link wasn't
hard. But maybe he would get hard. Maybe he'd get hard with Neah, against Neah,
thinking of Allen. Allen's stupid-loving eyes and pale body and coltish
affections... his lithe, boyish frame, as youthfully beautiful as the idealized
erômenosof Greek imagination.
A heady tremor began in Neah's hands and rose to course throughout his body. It
traveled through his nerves like a bolt of lightning through a power line. He
wasn't entirely certain what was driving it, whether it was hate or envy or
sadness or desire or love. Perhaps it was some combination of all these things.
He realized that he didn't want Link to be thinking of Allen. Not anymore.
"Link," Neah said. He tossed his head back, exposing the column of his neck: an
invitation. His hands slid up the expanse of Link's clothed back until they
rested over his nape. He dug his fingernails deep into the flesh, and closed
his eyes. His heart was hammering against his chest. "Let's run away from here.
Let's go to the other side. Together. Today."
He wanted to be held like a bird in Link's hands, eaten, devoured, desired.
Neah waited, but Link didn't kiss him. He kept waiting, squeezing down against
Link's thighs. Link didn't move. His eyes had been open for a while now, but
somehow, he also looked like he was only opening them now.
"No," Link said. "No, I can't do that. I can't just leave."
Neah felt a hot prickle of panic.
"Don't be like that, Howard," he said.
"There are people here who need me, Neah, why on Earth would I—"
"Because I need you most of all," Neah said breathlessly. He leaned forwards,
wanting, seeking, chasing. "Kiss me, golden boy. Kiss me."
That should've been the magic spell, but somehow, it didn't seem to take. Neah
grabbed Link by the lapels, trying to hold him in place, but Link was already
shrugging Neah off. Neah lost his balance and fell against the mattress on his
side. Link was standing up.
"No," Link said. He was fixing his shirt and pants now. His face was set hard
and firm, having lost that faraway look to it. "Enough is enough, Neah."
Neah rolled over onto his back, lifting himself up by his elbows.
"Is it because of Allen?" He asked. "Listen, Link, my Link, I know— I know you
want Allen, but that isn't real, not like what we have. I'm real, Link— and I
love you."
Oh, what a thrill it was, to live in the truth.
"You love me?" Link repeated. His mouth was pursed into a tight little line of
anger, but his eyes were shining with real hurt. "You do realize how... utterly
insaneyou sound, don't you?"
"It's the truth."
Link was fixing his cuffs, which had come undone and slipped over his wrists.
He looked angry, the kind of messy, piecemeal anger that came from a place of
deep pain.
"I know I'm hardly an expert in matters of the heart," he said slowly. His
voice sounded both powerful and breakable. "Still, I am fairly confident you do
not blackmail the people you love. You don't threaten them, or humiliate them,
or attempt to control them." His hands stalled over his cuffs. "Perhaps what I
feel... what I felt for Allen wasn't love. I'll concede that. But what you feel
for me? It certainly isn't love, either.
Link paced across the room, stopping at Neah's window. Neah pushed himself up
to sit upright on the bed.
"You have this— magnetism, Neah," Link said. He laughed harshly into his hands.
This was a bitterly unhappy sound. "Sometimes, beneath those edges, you just
seem... wounded. And sometimes, I— I really do find myself thinking I'd like to
kiss you. But I can't do that to myself, not while you seem to take such
pleasure in my pain."
"I'm not trying to hurt you," Neah said. He stood up, moving to following Link
to the window. Link flinched away, as if saying don't you dare touch me.
"Then delete that photograph," Link said. "Right now."
Neah froze, hand faltering where it had been about to reach out for Link.
He couldn't do that. He couldn't. He needed it.  If he deleted it, Link would
leave him.
Something caught in Neah's chest.
Link would leave him no matter what, wouldn't he?
"That's what I thought," Link said softly. "You know what's on the other side
of those mountains, Neah? Nothing. Nothing you won't find right here. It's not
just this town, and it's not just our class, and it's not just your family, and
it's not just me. You'll never be accepted anywhere. Do you understand why?"
Please, no.
"It's because you're a sicko, Neah," Link said. He looked tired.
No.
"You can post that picture all over the internet, if it pleases you," Link
said. "You can call Allen Walker up personally and tell him whatever strikes
your fancy. I don't follow your orders. I can't... do it to myself."
Fuck you.
"Please show yourself out," Link said.
Neah pushed himself up off the bed.
He showed himself out.
The moment that big, white door shut behind him, he was running. He ran to his
bike, nearly threw himself onto the seat, and pedalled home hard, not giving
himself a moment to breathe. He wanted his legs to ache with exertion.
He was home far too soon. He threw his bike against his garage, not caring if
it skidded against the asphalt, and ran, ran, ran until he was in his own room
and he was alone.
Neah curled up in bed. His eyes were hot and stinging. Stunned, he reached up
to touch his face. There were tears on his cheeks. They had tracked all the way
down to his jaw, leaving hot, salty streaks over his face.
Oh.
He hadn't cried since Mana's funeral.
That had been five years ago.
===============================================================================
 
Two weeks passed, and June finally reached them at last. The cicadas, finally
rousing from their seasons-long slumber, finally begin to sing.
It sounded like a dirge to Neah.
In the second week of June, the tenth graders finally sat down to write their
provincial exams. Neah did alright, even without studying. Link, on the other
hand, performed soaringly. The school board gave him some kind of fancy
certificate for his academic excellence. Neah wasn't really sure what it was.
Link and Neah didn't speak, not even once.
Once or twice, though, during the exams, Neah caught Link staring at him, lips
pursed, eyebrows drawn, mouth trembling like he was just barely keeping himself
from shouting something out.
On the last day of exams, teachers crowded around Link, already asking in
chattering voices where Link planned to attend university. Link, precocious and
overserious, assured them he still had over a year to make up his mind.
Neah spent his time alone, listening to Tchaikovsky and hating them all, hating
this town he'd been born in, this town he would surely die in.
He deleted Link's picture from his phone. He wondered, with a pang of longing,
if Link had gone ahead and burned Allen Walker's gym shirt, or even simply
thrown it away.
All evidence of their time together, erased. Their contract, now voided.
Link had called Neah's bluff.
Victory was his.
===============================================================================
 
There was no comfort to be found by the river. Not anymore. Memories of Link
had polluted it, made it black and foul and wrong.
Once, this had been Neah's secret place. His sanctuary. A place to hide away
from the world. He'd broken that secret by bringing Link here— and Link had
taken that trust and run with it.
Rotten boy.
Neah went anyways. He watched the river flood around him, wet and long and
bobbing with bits of white Styrofoam and sopping cardboard.
He used to watch it flow into the mountains and wonder where it was headed. He
used to dream of lying on his back among the surf, letting the river carry him
far, far away to its nearest delta; a great big basin, the ocean it would birth
Neah into. Neah would be the son of the ocean; they would wreathe him in sea-
leaves and crown him in yellow pearls.
The great, glorious impossibility of fantasy.
It was hard to imagine it now, the tantalizing promise of escape the river had
once represented. The enchantment had faded. Now, he saw only the trash.
Plastic cup holders and wrapping paper and the waxy, yellowish remains of an
ancient takeout dish.
"This isn't even a river," he muttered to himself. He laughed, sharp, alone.
"It's a creek."
He biked home, feeling heavy. His arms were heavy. His legs were heavy. He
dragged his bike into the garage. In his head, he was drawing great circles; he
was imagining every road, every river in the world looping right back into this
very spot, land-locking him.
The door flung open in his face before he even had a chance to touch the
handle. Neah blinked as Katerina greeted him with a big, beaming smile. She was
wearing lipstick, and had a dusty pink apron wrapped around her waist. She
looked happy. Happier than she had in a long while.
"Neah, you silly goose, where have you been?" Katerina stepped aside, ushering
Neah into the house. "Nevermind, you're here now. One of your little friends
from school dropped by!"
Neah froze, too shocked to even fight off Katerina's guiding hands, which were
pushing and pulling him into the house.
"What?"
"You know, I never get to meet your friends," Katerina said. She looked beside
herself, like she might faint. The mere prospect that Neah might have friends
seemed to thrill her beyond words. "I like this Howard, he's such a polite boy.
You never meet politeboys like that, these days. I told him you weren't home,
but he insisted on waiting, such a dear."
"Link is here?" He asked. That age-old panic had returned, wrapping around his
heart like a hot whip. "Right now? Why?"
"Well, I don't know, he's yourfriend. I told him he could sit in your room, if
he was alright with waiting..."
"No," Neah said, finally returning to himself, but Katerina was already opening
up his bedroom door and giving him a little push inside. Neah stumbled
forwards, eyes widening as he took Link in— that favorite boy of his, who he'd
not spoken to in three weeks.
Link was sitting stiffly on Neah's bed. He was wearing a navy blue blazer and a
white untucked oxford. His thick, honey-blonde hair was done in a loose half-
plait. Link's hard, blood-borne eyes reflected back in Neah's gaze.
Neah had never seen a boy so beautiful.
"I need to do some grocery shopping," Katerina said, oblivious to the tension.
"Link, will you be staying for dinner? We'd love to have you."
"My uncle will probably be expecting me," Link said. There was a strange little
warble to his voice, but Katerina seemed not to notice. "But thank you very
much, ma'am."
"Ma'am," Katerina echoed, putting her hand to her mouth. She appeared to need
several moments to compose herself. She was that ecstatic. "Well," she warbled,
hand falling away to reveal a tight little smile. "I'd best be off. And don't
be a stranger, Howard."
She turned around and closed the door behind them. Neah didn't say anything,
and neither did Link. They listened to Katerina pad through the house,
gathering her keys, removing her apron, pulling her heels on. They listened to
the front door swing open and shut, the starting of the engine as her car
pulled out.
It was strange, seeing Link in his own room. It was like seeing two distinct
halves of his life collide. Here he was, silent and serious, sitting on Neah's
childhood bed amidst his records and hastily tacked-up posters: Baryshnikov as
Albrecht in Giselleleaping like a pouncing cat, a black and white photograph of
the legendary Balanchine instructing one of his pinhead ballerinas, a glossy
print of sheet music to a favourite composition. Pieces of a world Neah did not
belong to, of music and stars and velvet darkness.
"I've been thinking of cutting my hair," Link said, breaking the silence. This
statement seemed to come completely out of nowhere, and Neah startled.
"Fucking what?" Neah said.
"Well. Leverrier says it's time I cut it," Link said. His eyes assessed Neah
with some kind of special knowledge. "He's all but told me to. He says it's
gotten too long."
Neah leaned back against the closed door. He looked around the room. There was
a cup of hot tea steaming on Neah's side table. Katerina's manic attempt at
hospitality, no doubt.
"You follow his orders?" But not mine?
"I trust his judgement," Link said. Then, with slow self-awareness, "His orders
aren't... destructive to me."
"And yet, he threatens to destroy this part of you," Neah said. He went up to
the side of the bed and pulled Link's braid over his shoulder, feeling the
softness of his hair. Then, regretting it, he dropped it and went back to the
door.
"You didn't tell anyone," Link said. Though he'd phrased it like a statement,
Neah knew there was a question buried within.
"I deleted the picture, if that's what you're asking." Neah smiled, a sickly-
sweet, cruel smile that came to him more easily than a scowl. "Were you
expecting me to take my revenge, Howard?"
"Honestly, yes," Link said. He folded his hands over his lap. His feet were in
a perfect fifth position. Trust Neah to notice that kind of thing.
"Seriously, what are you doing here?"
"I wasn't satisfied with the way we left things," Link said. He looked down at
his hands, pursed his lips, then looked up again, eyes shining with renewed
resolve. "I want to apologize. For losing my temper."
"You want to apologize," Neah repeated.
"That is my intention."
"Apologize."
"Yes," Link said.
Neah started towards the bed with violence. Link's eyes went wide. He opened
his mouth, maybe to placate Neah, to calm him or maybe even scold him, but Neah
wanted none of it. He put his knee on the bed and threw himself forward, right
on top of Link, pinning him to the bed by his wrists. Link cried out in
surprise, and at this, Neah could only hiss, moving to mock-straddle him.
"Look at you," Neah seethed. He panted, his chest heaving outwards with each
breath. His golden boy, as cold as stone. "You're a real peace of fucking work,
aren't you? You and your hollow apologies?"
"Let's not be melodramatic," Link sighed. He reached up to touch Neah's face.
Neah slapped his hand away. "You don't scare me, you know."
"Nothing scares you!" Neah burst out. He raised one hand very quickly, as if he
meant to slap Link across the face. Link didn't move to stop him. He just
squirmed. "Christ! The way you just lie there and take it— your uncle hits you,
doesn't he? But you don't care. Do you even care if you live or die?"
On an impulse, he wrapped his hands around Link's neck. Link's pulse jumped
underneath his fingertips, sinewy muscles flexing and straining against Neah's
grip.
"Are you scared now, Link?" Neah asked, soft and dangerous and sing-song.
Neah leaned forwards, arcing forwards aggressively to apply weight to his hold
on Link's neck, catching him in a choke so tight that Link began to gasp and
squirm, air whistling down into his lungs in only the shallowest pulls.
"Hey, Link," Neah panted. "I've got a question for you. If there's no other
side, then what the hellhave I been living for?"
Link stared up at Neah. His brown eyes reflected some oceans-deep emotion. It
was pity, Neah realized. His heart began to hammer against his ribcage in
terrified agony, begging for release. Link pitied him! Pitied him!
"Why bother living at all?" Neah asked ferociously. He could feel something
coming, something long and torn rattling up from his bones— he couldn't tell if
it was a scream, a laugh, or a sob. "Why bother with anything if this is all I
have to look forwards to? Why not—  why not crawl down into Mana's grave and
rot with him?"
Mana, Mana with his long hair and gentle smiles. Mana, skinny and knock-kneed
at ten years old, chasing after Neah with a laugh in his throat. Sweet,
delicate, crybaby Mana.
Neah would always, always hate this town, this town where Mana was buried.
"Answer me," Neah said. His hands were trembling around the column of Link's
throat. "What am I supposed to do? What the hell am I supposed to do?"
Link lifted one hand, pale fingers reaching out for Neah through the darkness.
The arc of his arm was balletic. His fingertips brushed against the side of
Neah's face, settling over his cheek with all the tenderness and pathos and
suavity of a dying swan. Neah's grip on Link went lax with surprise. Link took
advantage, leaning up from the bed, his head moving towards Neah's in the dark.
Link's mouth found its way to Neah's chin and wrestled upwards, fought for
Neah's mouth, found it, and rested there.
Link kissed Neah. It was a slow, clinging, careful kiss, brushing open over
Neah's closed lips. It was Neah's first real kiss, softer and somehow wetter
than he'd ever imagined it might be. It was a strange, sorrowful kiss. This
kiss was old, much older than their sixteen years, and it both thrilled and
frightened Neah.
Neah closed his eyes. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth to the kiss. He kissed
back. Again. And then again. Link's hand moved to cradle the back of Neah's
head. Their teeth clattered once or twice, a little painful, but not painful
enough to deter either of them. On the sixth kiss, their tongues brushed up
against one other, and it was then that they backed out shyly, breathless and
alarmed by their own abandon.
Neah went blank for a moment, breathing hard. Link dropped back down against
the mattress, breathing hard. He was blushing hard, and his eyes were
flickering about the room nervously now. He didn't say anything. Neither did
Neah. He swayed on top of Link, thighs still locked around the slender point of
Link's waist. He realized that his hands, which had once been locked around
Link's neck, had moved subconsciously to grasp his shoulders.
"Stay with me," Link said. He closed his eyes and coughed, rasping, still
recovering from the vice-grip of Neah's chokehold. Neah felt a pang of guilt
flash through him. Strange. He hadn't known that was an emotion he was still
capable of. "You win, alright? So stay with me."
"You don't wantme," Neah said. The words come to him in a swift fall, like
curtains descending. He looked down at Link's chest, the rise and fall of
Link's each and every breath. "You want an angel."
"I'm not sure what I want," Link answered, raw, honest. "But I just can't leave
you like this. That's what I've been thinking all this time. I just can't leave
him alone."
Neah licked his lips.
"Because you love me?"
"Because you need me," Link admitted.
"That's not the same thing," Neah said. "Oh, my prince. That's not the same
thing at all."
He shifted to back off of Link's body, but before he could slip off the bed,
Link caught him by the wrists and pulled him back in.
"To me, it is," Link said softly.
They stared at one another. There was a precision to Link's gaze, an intensity
to his eyes. They hummed like oil behind glass. Link's focus was incredibly,
always incredible— and it felt incredible too, to be the subject of such
devoted attention. Neah's heart was twisting in his chest. Twisting, twisting,
twisting like the head of a pin.
Then they were kissing again. There was no saying who had initiated it, who had
first pressed their lips, or who had first opened their mouth to deepen it— it
simply happened, as easy and as natural as breathing.
Neah fell down over Link's body so that he was lying on top of him. They were
chest to chest, legs twining together, kissing desperately, wantingly. They
were learning the shape of each other's mouths. They were learning what felt
good, how to repeat it, and how to make it better.
Good was when Link nipped at Neah's lower lip experimentally, betterwas when
Neah let their tongues slide up together, the glide hot and liquid. Link
actually let out a little moan, just a quiet one, a sound that managed to be
lower and sexier than Neah had ever imagined.
He muffled the sound immediately, ashamed and embarrassed, and Neah grinned. He
was half-hard by this point, just from kissing. He aligned their hips together,
Neah in black jeans and Link in cool, light chinos— and ground down, hard. They
both let out little hisses then as their clothed erections rubbed against each
other, the sensation going right to Neah's head and leaving him dizzy.
"Look at you," Neah purred. A slow warmth had crept up into his stomach and
stayed there, burning him up. His hips jutted a second time, and Link bit back
this perfect little gasp. Link was beneath him, hard, panting; it was almost
too much to handle. "You're... you're a real pervert after all, Link."
Link wet his lips and flushed.
"This is a perfectly natural response to the situa— oh!"
Neah reached down between Link's legs with one hand to cup his groin, thumbs
rubbing appreciatively over the telltale tent of his erection.
"Look at us," Neah said with a breathless laugh, a bit of his old sly smile
returning. "A pair of perverts, rutting off in the dark."
Link covered his face with his hands.
"You're terrible. Incorrigible."
"And yet, here you are," Neah grinned. He pried Link's hands away and kissed
him full on the mouth, dark and without shame. All the while, he kept rubbing
at Link's dick through his clothes, now grinding down hard with the flat of his
palm while Link's hips jerked and jumped into his touch.
"Aren't we," Link started, swallowing hard between words, his throat bobbing
with the motion. "Aren't we moving a little fast?"
"I'm pretty happy with the way things are progressing," Neah purred. He started
fumbling with the zipper of Link's pants, thumbing over it purposefully.
"Unless you want to stop?"
Link paused, considering it. Neah toyed with the track of Link's zipper, not
yet working to undress him.
"No," Link decided, shy and hesitant. Then, with more confidence,  "No, I'm
just trying to keep my head together."
Neah put his hands to his mouth and laughed.
"Well, you can certainly try," he said. "Just know I'll be fighting that effort
every step of the way."
Link rolled his eyes and let out this embarrassed little huff. Neah counted
that as permission, and began focusing his attentions on divesting Link of his
shirt. He worked each button off slowly, carefully, turning the process into a
sensual build-up towards what was to come. Link really did have a nice body.
Lithe, athletic, neither too broad or too waifish. Neah spread Link's shirt
open and began to tug it away from his shoulders. Link, meanwhile, had gahered
his courage and was tugging up the hem of Neah's own shirt—  Neah stopped to
help Link lift it over his head.
They kissed again, then, wet and greedy and past embarrassment. They were bare
chest against bare chest, and God, the feeling of skin on skin was so fucking
good. Link reached between them, thumb grazing over Neah's nipple curiously,
and Neah keened and grabbed at Link's shoulders when Link rolled it between his
fingers.
"You're sensitive here?"
"I guess I am," Neah laughed.
Then, Link replaced his fingers with his mouth, and saying anything at all
became slightly impossible. Neah moaned helplessly, his nails digging into
Link's pale skin.
"It certainly seems like it," Link murmured, mouth travelling from Neah's
nipple to the center of his chest. He pressed a kiss there, so gentle and pure
in its intent that Neah nearly melted.
"I wanna get you off," Neah said. He grabbed Link's face between both his
hands, and brought it back up to his for another long kiss. Once the both of
them were properly breathless, Neah rested their foreheads together, the breath
between them mingling like a shared lifeline. "You're cool with that?"
"O-Oh." Link was bright red. "If. If that's what you want."
Neah laughed.
"You're so transparent. Perv."
Neah kissed the tip of Link's nose, then returned to his zipper, dragging it
down in one sharp tug. Shivering in anticipation, he began tugging at the
waistline of Link's pants and boxers, dragging them down over his hipbone to
expose Link's hard cock. Link kicked his clothes away, and as an afterthought,
pulled off his socks. Once fully naked, he lay back against the bed, victim to
Neah's inspection.
Link was big. Bigger than Neah had imagined, somehow. There was something
almost jarring about the sight— it made Neah realize they were really doing
this. Having sex. Still, Neah was hardly intimidated. Rather, all of a sudden,
all his fantasies and desires seemed to intensify with threefold force. He
wanted Link's cock in his hands, in his mouth, between his thighs, inside him.
He wanted Link to fuck him, like he'd dreamed. Link's hips crashing against
Neah's, filling him up with his cock.
That would come later, Neah thought, when they were... better prepared. Still,
the thought had him almost unbearably excited. Excited enough that he let out a
hot, wanting sound when Link reached up and touched the waist of his own pants,
tugging meaningfully.
Neah undid his zipper and shucked his pants, socks, and underwear off. He felt
surprisingly unashamed in his nakedness, not vulnerable or exposed like Link.
Rather, he actually felt a little powerful— he could feel Link's eyes on him,
arrested by desire. Link's desire gave Neah agency. It made him strong.
Neah crawled back over on top of Link, the both of them now completely
undressed. They were flushed, breathing hard, fully hard. Slowly, Neah slid his
hands down the twitching slate of Link's stomach, over his hips, and wrapped
one hand around his cock. Link bit his lip, like he was just barely keeping
himself from making a sound. That wouldn't do. Neah began pumping up and down,
stroking Link in long, even pulls. It felt strange, doing this to someone else,
but good, too. Really good, especially when he got to watch Link's eyes flutter
shut in pleasure, letting out low moans and gripping the bedsheets with both
hands.
"Neah— "
"I wanna try it with my mouth," Neah said suddenly, hand slowing over Link's
dick. Link's eyes snapped open, but before he could protest or question Neah,
Neah was inching down to rest between Link's thighs, propping himself up just
slightly to be level with his cock. This wasn't something he'd ever done
before, of course, but he'd seen porn. Read stuff. He knew the theory— and his
own imagination had supplied possibilities of what might feel good or what
might work.
He started cautiously, running the flat of his tongue over the side of Link's
cock, tongue curling beneath the undersides of the tip before Neah stopped and
decided to lick over the slit, tasting the slick of precome there. This was a
salty, musky taste. It was strange, of course, but he found he didn't dislike
it. Careful to keep his teeth behind his lips, he brought Link deeper into his
mouth, sucking him in proper. At this, Link let out a louder moan. His hands,
which had previously been clinging to the mattress, came to rest on top of
Neah's head. He was gripping Neah's hair— whether it was to slow him or push
him further, Neah couldn't tell.
"Oh my God," Link said. Neah popped off Link's cock and gripped it by the base,
observing him. His chest was heaving upwards in heavy breaths. His eyes were
glazed over. He looked debauched, fucking gorgeous. "Jesus Christ, Neah."
"Just relax," Neah smiled, and he went back down, testing to see if he could
take it deeper. Link was big, bigger than he was, and he could feel his jaw
straining slightly as he went down on him. Still, he sort of liked it, that
strain. Like he was choking on Link's cock. That was certainly another thought
that bore later investigation. For now, he worked up and down with his mouth,
stopping occasionally to focus on a certain point at the side or at the base.
Link's hips began to shake, occasionally jumping upwards in these shallow
little thrusts that only drove his cock deeper into Neah's mouth, occasionally
threatening to force his throat.
"Neah, Neah, w-wait," Link gasped. He tugged back on Neah's hair, hard, and
Neah leaned upwards to look Link in the eye. There was a look in his eye that
Neah had never seen before, wild and possessive and needy. Hungry.
Link had seen the hunger in Neah and matched it, fire to fire, dark to dark.
Neah had been right all along. Link was different. Link was the same.
Link reached down and tugged Neah upwards so that Neah was back on top of him,
cocks sliding together as Link kissed Neah hard on the mouth, all propriety and
romance abandoned for tongue, for heat, for animal desire. Neah was moaning,
too, then, his hard cock rutting up against Link's, the friction between them
unbearably good.
Link sat up, bringing Neah with him. He wrapped one long hand around Neah's
cock, provoking a whimper from him as he rubbed it against his own. Neah could
do nothing but close his eyes, work his hips blindly and hold on, slowly losing
himself to the pleasure of Link's touch and the slow-burning heat rising in his
gut.
Link came first, groaning against Neah's neck, but Neah wasn't far behind. He
came with a high, almost feminine cry, come spattering over Link's fingers and
over his hips and stomach.
They came down together, twined like the roots of trees. Breathing. Staring.
Kissing, every so often.
"You're something else," Link said. He was staring at Neah with big, almost
fearful eyes.
"Fuck yeah I am," Neah breathed. He collapsed against Link's body, languid,
boneless. "And you are, too. My golden prince. My Link. All mine."
===============================================================================
 
They cleaned each other up, quickly pulled their underwear back on, and lay
down together. They were as lazy and sated as big cats in the Savannah heat,
pelts baking in the sun after a hunt. Lying against the warm crook of Link's
bare shoulder, Neah stared out the faded, frosty window.
He stared at the cracks in the pavement, the rust flaking off the street signs,
the green and yellow grass tufting at their base. He looked at his neighbors’'
houses and fences, same as they day they'd first been built, and then at his
own windowsill, the whorls in the unpainted wood.
How did this town go on and on, never remaking itself, never losing itself?
Neah would never understand.
The town felt like a mirage, a dream. A world spilling out, too small for
itself. Here, the past was always alive, and it had no end— without time, each
moment was erected and lived on into eternity. Empires and legions would rise
and fall, but time would never touch this place.
Link stirred in Neah's bed, long hair following the loll of his head. He was
sleepy, but not asleep; he lay there, quiet and pensive, watching Neah watch
the world. Neah loved him, then, in that precise moment. It was a strange
feeling, bigger than his boyish body. It made Neah feel like he was becoming
something else.
Transformation, elevation. That was the essence of orchestra, and the essence
of ballet.
Before, Neah had always thought that love inevitably ended in tragedy. After
all, it was the old ballet stories that taught him this. Giselle, Swan Lake—
 betrayal, sacrifice, innocence lost, heartbreak. Now, he wasn't so certain.
Tragedy was rapidly losing its appeal. Even Tchaikovsky's mournful suites were
failing to convince him.
He wanted to believe in everlasting love. He wanted to believe that that love
could be good, and fulfilling, and make a disappointed life liveable once more.
Even in a place like this.
Even for a monster like Neah.
Link lifted his head off the mattress and said, "Neah, if you ever run away, at
least tell me where you're headed first."
Neah hummed, pressing his nose against Link's side. "So you can follow me?"
"So I at least have that option," Link answered. He closed his eyes. "One more
thing, Neah?"
"Yeah?"
"Just... stay alive."
There was real pain in Link's voice. Neah realized then that he'd frightened
Link with his talk of Mana, talk of graves, talk of death. If it had come from
anyone but Link, Neah would've found this concern hysterical, but it wasLink,
so instead, it made Neah's heart feel strange and tight.
"Okay," Neah said. "Hey, I can do that. Sure thing."
"Good." Link opened his eyes again. There was some clarity there. "How long
until your mother comes back home?"
"Maybe a half hour," Neah lied. It was probably closer to fifteen minutes, but
he didn't want Link to leave just yet. He stirred restlessly, loving the feel
of his smooth skin sliding against Link's. Link made a soft sound, like a sigh,
reaching out absentmindedly to run a hand through Neah's rumpled hair. "Getting
tired, prince?"
"A little," Link admitted. "But I'm alright."
"Good," Neah said. He pressed a dry kiss to Link's cheek. "The night is still
young, my Siegfried, and I'm not quite finished with you yet."
End Notes
     hurryupfic | tumblr
     fuckhowardlink | twitter
     - The insert poem is Lethe by Charles Baudelaire.
     - Neah references ballet and related mediums throughout the text,
     Swan Lake most notably. If you smell an allusion or have any
     questions, feel free to address me directly.
     - This fic, of course, borrows heavily from Aku no Hana, a manga I
     highly recommend; however, this story is not a perfect parallel.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!