Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13550937.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      D.Gray-man
  Relationship:
      Howard_Link/Nea_Walker
  Character:
      Howard_Link, Nea_D._Campbell
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Oral_Sex, safe_and_consensual_but_admittedly
      not_always_sane, such_is_life
  Series:
      Part 2 of my_own_private_eden
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-02 Words: 10094
****** sincerely, future pollution ******
by hurryup
Summary
     “Tell me,” Link murmured. “Are you going to break my curse, or simply
     replace it with one of your own making?”
     Still resting on his haunches, Neah settled in between Link’s legs.
     “Honestly, which would you prefer?”
     “I don’t know,” Link answered. His measured tone was disturbed by the
     decidedly unmeasured pace of his breathing; his chest heaved upwards
     with each inhale. Looking at Neah, chin tilted down against his
     collarbone, he seemed (completely by accident) to be the most
     impossibly erotic creature on earth. “I truly, truly couldn’t say.”
     One week later. Neah and Link navigate love, or something very much
     like it.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
 
Neah had this dream, sometimes. This dream of Mana. 
It was a simple dream. Maybe even a little mundane. At the very least, it book-
ended his feverish dreams of Link with surprising sobriety. With stability.
Dreams of Link, after all, were anything but stable — they were hyperemotive,
hypersexed; blood, flowers, mouths on mouths on bodies. 
The thought of Mana and sex existing in the same space was enough to make Neah
nauseous.
A dream of Mana was a dream of quiet dignity. A rainy-Sunday-morning dream. A
dream of someone else’s childhood.
In the dream, Neah was always his present age: sixteen, edging towards
seventeen, still lanky-legged and moody with his stick-up black hair. Mana was
always ten years old. The immortalising power of death, Neah supposed. He would
always be ten years old. Always warbly-voiced and bright-eyed. Always wearing a
neat white shirt with a blue trim and a grass-stained pair of cotton capris.
The clothes he’d died in.
He died innocent, at least.
Not everyone got as much.
In the dream, Mana would plop down into Neah’s lap. There was no interest in
Neah, no hesitation; he was just too young to understand the delineation
between bodies, where Neah’s stopped and his own began. Lazily pleased with
himself, Mana would tuck his head beneath Neah’s chin. He’d hunch forwards,
concentrating.
At ten and seventeen, you’d never have guessed they were twins. Mana looked
like a little cousin, a kid brother. And he’d always been so small for his age,
too —  he could’ve passed for six or seven quite easily. Even when he’d been
alive, he’d looked somewhat corpse-like; pale, delicate, perhaps somewhat
malnourished.
They sat in front of a big, hardwood table. Sometimes, Mana would be drawing
pictures in washable marker, getting frustrated when the black or the blue went
dry. The rest of the time, he’d be doing a puzzle. The puzzles had pictures of
owls and bears and raccoons on them. They’d actually owned these puzzles, back
in the day. They were souvenirs from a local wildlife conservatory — the only
‘day trip’ Katerina had ever taken them on.
A puzzle would cleave together, then came apart again. Neah would form a fist
around a black marker, penning out a sloppy, four-lettered signature. Neah
would prod at Mana’s side. Come on, hey. It’s time to go. But Mana would shake
his head, no. He would lean back against Neah’s chest and yawn. He would ask to
stay, to play a little longer, and Neah’s throat would cinch. Feeling pinned,
feeling caught, Neah would let them stay. Just for another half hour, okay? So
Mana would start doing the puzzle again. He’d reach for a fresh scrap of paper
and start sketching anew.
Red marker, white printer paper. Mana would draw a big almond-shape, then a
smaller circle trapped inside. Tiny fingers arranging puzzle pieces together
with an astonishing speed and accuracy.
Neah bounced his knees, up, down, up, down. Mana jolted on his lap. Up, down,
up down. Let me down, Mana said. So Neah let him down. And he looked down, too,
right down at the picture sitting on the table.
It was a big red eye, rendered with the frightening clumsiness of a child’s
hand. 
Beneath it, three words: I SEE YOU.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The cicadas were singing.
It was an ugly sound, this calling song. Neah, at the very least, had never
liked it. He found it ugly, monotone; it was like an overpitched synthesizer,
like an overextended scream. Warbling so high as to be nearly painful, you
could hardly call it a song at all. More a stridulation.
Arms folded against the windowpane, Neah contented himself with the knowledge
they wouldn’t sing for long. It was already August, after all. The days were
growing cooler and shorter, the shadows longer. Soon, the cicadas and the
crickets and the katydids would disappear back into the grass, taking their
their loveless music with them.
And it would be September again.
He heard Link before he saw him. It was a faint scuffling of shoes upsetting
the driveway stones. At first, before peeking out the window, he thought it
might be a possum or a raccoon. Maybe a cat. But then there was Link, his hard
black shoes scuff-scuff-scuffling gently against the road as he made a brisk
pace up towards Neah’s house. He had his school bag slung over one arm, and was
dressed in modest blacks as if to defy the August heatwave. His braid bounced
against his back when he walked.
Up, down, up, down.
Head in his hands, Neah watched him walk. There wasn’t anything dirty about it,
or even anything wrong, but all the same, he still felt a voyeuristic thrill.
Maybe it was just the fact that Link didn’t know he was being watched.
Maybe it had more to do with the way Neah felt when he looked at Link, like
Link was something he owned.
Or something he’d stolen.
Neah watched him walk, braid bouncing between his shoulder blades, until Link
rounded up the steps and disappeared from sight.
Neah stood up just in time to hear the doorbell chime.
He rose from his seat at the window, bare feet making cool contact with the
uncovered wooden floor. He padded from the living room into the hallway, heart
picking up in his chest. Something in him was flaring up, going up in a flash
like gasoline, like a stupid hope.
Perhaps this was what it meant to be a boy in love.
To be inured to the blackness of the world.
It took everything inside of him not to break into a sprint, to throw the door
open and fall into Link’s arms. Instead, he moved mechanically, one foot at a
time. Deliberately, torturous slowly. He twisted the lock free, hands dropping
to the handle. He opened the door halfway, letting a vertical stream of light
pour into the house.
And there, standing demurely on the step, was Link.
He was wearing a black oxford shirt and a pair of slimline trousers that looked
like they might’ve been tailored.  That in itself was somewhat awe-inspiring.
 He had his shirt rolled up his elbows, exposing the surprising definition of
his forearms.
Link’s body was like a pulled wet branch, his taut muscles holding some weird
snap that seemed mechanical and a little dangerous. He could’ve been an
athlete, if he wanted to be. Neah had once heard the school coach all but beg
him to join the track team. But Link was too busy with his schoolwork, too busy
with his grades. He’d said no, firm yet polite.
“Hello,” Neah said. He leaned into the door frame, holding the creaky wooden
architrave with both arms, as if protective of it. Or perhaps protective of
himself. He felt uncharacteristically shy. Coquettish.
Greeting Link as a classmate had been one thing. Greeting Link as a lover was
something else entirely. It was bright and shiny and new.

“Hello,” Link agreed. He pushed his fringe out of his face with one hand. He
looked about as nervous as Neah felt, which was sort of a comfort. “Warm
today,” he then offered, a little awkwardly.
Neah ducked his head against the door, lips curving into a teasing smile.
“Are you really making small talk, Link? With me?”

Link’s cheeks heated up into a blush. Lips curving into a pleasant little
frown, he argued, “It's a reflex. Hard to unlearn. How would you prefer I
greeted you?

Neah scraped his nails against the panelling of the front door lightly,
feigning interest in the grains and the whorls of the wood.

“Maybe by saying, Hello, Neah. You look wonderful today,” he purred, voice
thick with a faux-moodiness. Link rolled his eyes, and sighed. It wasn’t a
particularly convincing sigh, not when his eyes were so bright, lips twitching
disobediently.

“Hello, Neah,” he said, eyes were shining with a wry sincerity. “You look
wonderful today.” Then, before Neah even had the chance to properly melt, Link
continued,  “I wish you'd at least consider a comb, though.”
Neah dropped his head against the door sulkily, pinning Link with a stubborn
glare.

“My hair gives me character,” he protested. He reached up and touched his own
hair, torn between defensiveness and self-consciousness. He could feel the
black, somewhat bristly texture of his hair poking up through his fanned
fingers. Perpetual bedhead, Katerina called it. Back when he’d been a kid,
she’d often wrestle it down with a wiry brush or a small mountain of bobby
pins. Not so much these days. Neah supposed it was about time he learned to
tame it on his own.

“You’d have character with or without frumpy hair,” Link assured Neah. He put
both of his hands up in a placating gesture. “You’ve something of an
overabundance of character, actually.”
“An overabundance? That sounds so negative.”
“I don’t consider it to be a negative,” Link returned. He looked down at his
schoolbag, hands working with a rapid precision to adjust the strap. When he
lowered his head, his fringe fell over his eyes, brushed his cheekbone.
He still hadn’t cut it. Neah loved that.
Over Link’s shoulder, Neah could make out the faint, ghostly groping of smoke.
A neighbour’s barbecue, most likely, or a bonfire.
“Well, do you consider it a positive?” Neah asked.
“Not particularly,” Link said, fingernails rasping over the vinyl front,
fiddling with the clasp. He lifted his eyes once more, this time, meeting
Neah’s without embarrassment or rancor. For the first time that day, Neah
noticed the dark circles running underneath, blending blue into the sweet tone
of his skin. “It’s just the way you are, and I have the suspicion that this
particular facet of your nature is more or less unalterable. You’ll always be a
little bit… more.”
“Careful, now,” Neah sniffed. “That almost sounded like a straightforward
compliment.”
“In some ways, it is a compliment,” Link agreed. His frown had faded away, and
he suddenly seemed to be in a rare mood of affable patience. “Your
overabundance of personality is part of what makes you interesting. But it also
makes you… well, somewhat vexing, I suppose.”
Vexing.That surprised a laugh out of Neah. It was a big, boisterous laugh, the
kind that bubbled up from the depths of his stomach. He pushed the door open a
little wider, revealing a little more of himself to Link.
“Are you vexed, Howard?” He asked slyly, stepping out to the very edge of the
threshold. 
Link nodded gravely.
“Almost constantly.”
Neah laughed again. With one hand, he pushed the front door wide open— the old
hinges squeaking noisily as it flew back. Neah stepped down to the front porch,
right in front of Link. He could smell the smoke in the air, and the pleasant
waft of something musky. A shampoo? A cologne?
They’d never put a welcome mat or rug down, or the big red muskoka chairs the
neighbours seemed to love, so the front porch was little more than a bare slab
of pale concrete. But the concrete was warm, the gritty stone blushing hot
beneath the sun’s affections. They heated up the pads of Neah’s feet, almost
painful.
“You said you’d be here at 2:00,” Neah said, slow and dolorous. He put on a
pair of big doe eyes, resisting the urge to giggle. “You’re late.”
Link frowned. Quite archly, in fact. He reached down into the side pouch of his
bag for his phone, lifting the dark screen to his eyes with a squint.
“It’s 2:04.”
“I know,” Neah sighed, rich with melodrama, “and isn’t that terrible?” The
giggle finally broke through, bright and boyish. He flashed Link a smile. “I’ll
forgive you, just this once. After all, you sort of look like you’ve had a busy
day.”
“Do I really?” Link asked. Neah nodded. 
“You look tired,” he confirmed. He hummed at the back of his throat, gesturing
towards Link’s face with an airy wave. “Sort of bruised around the eyes.”

“Oh,” Link said. He reached up with one hand and touched his own face. “I'm
fine.”

“You don't look fine.”
Link's eyes fell to his feet. He was wearing a kind of shiny leather loafers,
not black like Neah had first thought, but navy. You could see the pale jut of
his ankles poking out over the sides. It was a strange thing to notice, but
Neah noticed it anyways. It made his throat tighten up, for some reason,
cinching shut until he had to swallow hard.

“It's... it's just the heat,” Link said at last. “The heat is wearing me out.
Ten minutes in the shade, and I'll be right as rain.”

“Right as rain,” Neah repeated. It was almost funny, the way they were both
just standing there, staring down at Link's feet. The lacquered texture of his
loafers. That bony, inexplicably delicate anklebone. Neah had the absurd urge
to kneel down and kiss it. “I love that expression. I really do feel right when
it's raining. Like I’m being… filled to the brim. There’s a wholeness to rain.
A plenitude.”
Neah looked up. So did Link. His blonde fringe bounced against his temples when
he lifted his head. The edges were slightly curled, like hothouse flowers;
damp, heavy with heat.
“You say the strangest things, Neah.”
“Only because I believe them,” Neah smiled. Then, precipitously, “Would you
like to come inside?”

“I would.”

“Good,” Neah said, backing up into the house. Then, lower, “I miss your lips.
And that was all that needed saying, wasn’t it?
Neah was on Link the moment the door closed behind them. He pressed Link up
against the door, crushing his mouth against Link’s. Link’s bag slumped out of
his arms and fell to the floor. Thud.
It was a hard, sloppy kiss, but God, it felt good. Link’s hands roved up over
Neah’s back, curling into the fabric of his shirt. He was murmuring something
unintelligible against Neah’s kiss, perhaps a muffled expression of shock. He
was so easily taken by surprise. It was something Neah loved about him.
The scent of him was unforgettable, that clean, crystal-cool musk, and beneath
it, the masculine tang of sweat. It was clinging to his neck and shoulders with
a damp, translucent sheen. His lips were dry and warm, so warm. He tasted like
raw, ripened sugarcane, like sunshine, like a boy’s skin. Like himself.
“Warm today,” Neah murmured. He teased his fingertips up the sides of Link’s
shirt, just to feel his skin. “Ah, you're like the sun. You’re burning up, my
prince.”

Link’s hands settled over Neah’s hips. He pushed Neah back an inch, gentle yet
firm.
“Your mother isn't home, is she?”

“No, no,” Neah shook his head. He leaned back in, nuzzling his cheek against
the crook of Link’s shoulder. “Why, worried about interruptions?
Link let out a little huff of embarrassment.

“I worry about propriety.”

“I know you do,” Neah sighed. “Otherwise, I'd have kissed you right out there
on the porch for the whole world to see.”

“The world has no right to know who I'm... kissing,” Link said at last. He
rubbed the back of his neck, looking somewhat frustrated.

“And yet, I wish the world did know,” Neah said. He plucked at the front of
Link’s shirt moodily, turning the buttons of his oxford over in his fingers
without undoing them. “I want everyone to know you're mine.”

Link dropped his head back against the door with a dull thunk.
“Of course you do. You’re possessive like that, aren’t you?”

“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea,” Neah smiled. “When the new
semester starts, will you kiss me in the halls?”

“In the halls?” Link blinked, eyes going wide as if Neah had said something
astonishingly strange. He recovered quickly, turning his head to the side
bashfully as he demurred, “I don't know... if I'd kiss you. That’s quite
public, isn’t it?”

“You and your beloved propriety,” Neah sighed affectionately. He released the
front of Link’s shirt gently, and Link let out a grateful sigh. “Okay, fine. I
should’ve expected as much. But you'll at least hold my hand.”
“Oh,” Link said. He closed his eyes and released a breath through his nose.
“i... suppose. Yes, I suppose I will.”
With his eyes shut, the dark circles around his eye were all the more apparent.
They really did look bruises; a mottled bluish-purple at the center, turning
slowly yellow edges. Sunset colours, though hardly so pleasant.
“You're starting to worry me, now,” Neah said. “I'll tell you what — go wait in
my room. I have the AC turned up in there. I'll grab you a glass of water.
Okay, prince?”

“Okay,” Link said, his arms still weakly looped around Neah’s waist. Neah
leaned forwards and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before retreating.
He went into the kitchen. Opened the freezer. Cracked the ice tray, scooped
three cubes into Link’s glass. Filled it up from the sink. The yellow wallpaper
over the sink was about as old as Neah was, and it showed. It was patterned
with daisies. They might’ve even been pure white, once.
Counting them up the wall, Neah took the moment to collect himself.
He wanted to tell Link everything. About Katerina’s garden. About how he
sometimes felt like killing Allen Walker. About the enduring mystery of Mana’s
solitary red eye. About Giselle, and about Albrecht.
Once again, he found himself grappling helplessly with his own self-control. On
the one hand, what Neah wanted to tell Link was nothing but the absolute truth.
On the other hand, Link had already revealed he wasn’t always ready for Neah’s
truths. He couldn’t always endure them.
So Neah swallowed them down.
When he passed the front door, drink in hand, Link’s bag was still slumped
against the wall. He hadn’t bothered picking it back up. That struck Neah as
distinctly odd. Maybe Link really was heatsick.
“Link?” Neah said, pushing the door to his room open. There was no response.
Neah walked inside.
Neah’s room was in its familiar state of mess; clothes flopping over the lip of
the hamper, books and magazines spread-open on the desk and floor, walls packed
on every side with posters.
There was a big empty spot next to the door where one of Neah’s posters had
peeled off the wall. It had been a big banner poster of Natalia Osipova,
dancing the role of Kitri. She was was wearing Kitri’s iconic, Spanish-styled
layered tutu, the skirt bloomed around her like a red camellia. In this
particular shot, the lower half of the skirt was actually flipped up around her
waist,  exposing a pair of shockingly athletic legs. She was posed mid-air,
arms up above her head, legs suspended above the earth in this miraculous,
Olympian leap.
He hadn’t yet put the poster back up. And maybe he never would. Lately, Neah
had been thinking he ought to take all of his posters down. He was almost 17,
after all. Too old to be plastering his walls with childhood idols.
Link’s room was perfectly immaculate. Perfectly adult . By comparison, Neah’s
room looked tacky. Immature. He didn’t want to be immature.
With its puzzles and its printer paper, the world of childhood now seemed
unbearably shallow.
“If you were feeling sick today, I could’ve gone to your place,” Neah murmured.
He set Link’s water down against the desk.
“I’m alright, I swear,” Link said. But he didn’t really look alright. He was
lying flat on his back on Neah’s bed, on top of the sheets. He was staring up
at his ceiling.
Neah had fallen asleep to this same sight a thousand times— the white, bumpy
stucco, the yellowish water stain at the top right corner.
Link looked gorgeously out of place among Neah’s ballet paraphernalia and
childhood clutter. In fact, he looked like he might be the most expensive thing
in the room; his entire air suggested a fastidious, costly dedication to
appearance. Neah had never met anyone who wore tailored clothing before. Even
the blonde of Link’s hair seemed to be the same polished shade as gold coins;
the look and feel of him so wondrously minted.
Link shifted on the bed, as if distressed. His shirt was riding up just a
little bit, exposing his stomach, his hip bones.
“Liar,” Neah purred.
It was a little fascinating, the way Link could be sexy without even knowing
it. Without even trying to be . His legs were slightly spread, knees lifted so
slightly, and it made Neah wanted to crawl between them. It made him want to
nuzzle up between Link’s legs; not only to seduce him, though he did want to
seduce Link, but also just as a plain act of worship. An act of adoration.
He wanted to put his face against Link’s stomach and wrap his arms around
Link’s hips. He wanted to hear the secret sounds of Link’s body; his warmth.
His peculiar magic.
Neah sank down on the bed next to Link, coaxing Link towards him. Link rested
his head in Neah’s lap without much of a fight, blonde braid twisting and
curving like a snake over the dark cloth of Neah’s pants.
“No need to put on a brave face,” Neah said. He ran his knuckles over Link’s
forehead, hands wandering up into Link’s hair to toy with his blonde, too-long
fringe. Link had pretty hair, fine yet thick, the hairline zigzagging up over
his scalp like a bolt of white lightning. Link’s jaw tensed and untensed, like
he wasn’t sure if Neah’s touch was a comfort or not. He was undecided; Neah
hoped to sway him. “You’re ill, right? That, or you’re just plain exhausted.
You might as well be honest about it.”
“Neah, I told you, I’m fine,” Link said. He kept staring at the ceiling, at the
ugly water stain. Neah couldn’t say why. He would have much preferred it if
Link had been staring at him. 
The beast of summer was pacing restlessly in his stomach; racing around in its
great four-footed prowl. It was urging him to act out, and act out rashly. Grab
Link by the collar, force his eyes on you. Neah leashed it, just barely. It was
enough to have Link in his bed, hair splaying over his lap like a halo.
He would win his eyes back. He had to be patience. He had to act with love.
He loved Link more than anything else in the world, after all.
He scraped his nails over Link’s hair lightly. Link let out a little sigh.
“Did you want to sleep?” Neah asked, as nicely as he knew how. “I don’t mind.
You could fall asleep right here, if you’d like.”
“I shouldn’t,” Link said. That wasn’t a yes or no, not really. His eyes were
still open, and strangely empty; the earthy reddish-brown of them had
momentarily dimmed to a murky gray. Here was a pair of twin ashtrays,
landfills, calcined ruins. “I just got here, it’d be a waste if I fell asleep.
I’m sure you’d… well, I’m sure you’d rather we made the most of our time
together.”
“Well, that’s the nice thing about time,” Neah said, fingertips tracing an
elaborate series of patterns over Link’s sweet-smelling hair; he drew a heart,
then a star, then began tracing out his own name: the zigzagging, too-sharp N,
the twisting, sloping E… he drew away from the H slowly and slyly, feeling like
he’d gotten away with something, “we have plenty of it. All the time in the
world.”
“I should be home by six,” Link said, squirming every so slightly, his changing
weight sending a shift through the mattress.
This pulled a laugh from Neah, sharp and giddy and buoyant; his laugh went from
a cough to a wild fever. The joy in him felt sour-milk spoiled, it felt
diseased; maybe that’s why they called it lovesickness.He could’ve rolled to
the side of the bed and vomited his delirious affection all over the creaking
old floor.
“Home by six, sure.  And believe me, it hurts when you’re not here. It hurts
when you leave. But you’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, back in my bed. And the
day after that. And again and again. I’m patient, Link. More patient than you’d
think — when it comes to you, at the very least.” He pinched the thickest part
of Link’s braid between his thumb and index finger, testing the give of it. The
texture here was somewhat ropelike; Neah could’ve woven into a bracelet. Link
would hate that, wouldn’t he — for Neah to wear such a literal, tangible piece
of him. He’d despise that. Neah smiled, fingers sloping down to the very end of
the braid. “You know that, right? When it comes to you, I could wait a thousand
years, a million years.”
Link’s head twisted to the side, body wracked as if in anguish.
“How can you say things like that?” His voice was muffled against the side of
Neah’s thigh, his hot breath dampening the fabric ever slightly. “Flat-out,
without hesitation, without embarrassment?”
A laugh from Neah.
“I told you before, didn’t I?” He murmured. He could feel Link’s lips parting
against him, against his body. What followed was a soft, shaky exhale; although
his face was hidden by the fine curtain of his fringe, Neah could imagine his
lashes fanning shut; at peace, with Neah, at last, at last.
Neah touched Link’s cheek, running the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone with
a docile sort of focus.
“Just because you’re embarrassed doesn’t mean I have to be. And from the way I
see it, I don’t have anything to be embarrassed about,” Neah smiled, cupping
the side of Link’s face. “Not here. Come on. Come on.It’s just you and me,
prince.”
You and I, we can live in the truth as no one can. We have never won against
the world, I know, but we have this. An absolute truth; truth in its purest,
most monstrous body. And isn’t that wonderful? 
Ah, if only you weren’t so frightened of it.

“Why do you call me that?” Link rolled back over, lifting his eyes (finally,
gorgeously) to search Neah’s face. Some spark had returned to them; it was
something like curiosity. “Prince.”
“Because I like to,” Neah said. 
“I’ve been trying to figure out which it is, endearment or insult.”

“You’re funny,” Neah laughed brightly. He bent forwards, laughter fading into a
sharp, knife-edge grin, and it was with a wry, mock-severity that he continued,
“You’re never funny. You must be more exhausted than I’d thought.”
Link huffed.
“That was most certainly an insult.”
“Well, it’s not a lie,” Neah argued. Then, smoothing it all over with a long,
placating stroke, “You know I’d never lie to you.”
“I don’t think you’re wrong about that,” Link said. Then, he smiled; it was a
nervous stones-on-a-ledge smile. Above it, his eyes were bugging out, flashing
too big and too wide with their too-white whites and dark irises. “Isn’t that
strange? That I really believe everything you say? Isn’t that crazy?”
Neah brushed Link’s bangs away from his pale, upturned face.
“Not really.”
“Well, it makes me feel like I’m losing my mind,” Link said. His lips thinned.
For a moment, they looked very white, flat and immobile. They hardly looked
like lips at all. At first, they scared Neah; then, he was fascinated. As he
drank in the unearthly sight of Link’s corpsely, diamond-shaped face, his hands
wandered away from Link’s hair — Link reacted to this with a sudden, “Oh.”
Link’s breaths returned to him sharply, like someone who had just been
resuscitated. Neah stopped, then smiled, recognising the look of hazy
disappointment that settled over Link like a little cloud. He’d been enjoying
himself. Enjoying Neah’s touch. 
“Should I continue?” Neah asked, smiling his secret smile. The look of
disappointment lingered for only a moment before being replaced by a bloodrush
of embarrassment, the fair skin of Link’s cheeks and neck turning slightly
pink. 
“I didn’t mind it,” Link muttered defensively, voice so quiet as to nearly be
lost beneath his breath. Neah’s heart burned in his chest. He wanted to lean
down and kiss the shy flush from Link’s body. He wanted to feel the heat of
Link’s skin against his own; the pulse of him, the bitter, the sweet. Something
broader and brighter than a red camellia was blooming in him; it was feeding
the beast, feeding the archetypal, mythic shadow of him.
 For the second time that day, he leashed himself. There would be time for
kisses, soon. Instead, he pinned Link with a sly look and replied, “Admit it,
you were enjoying yourself.”
Link pursed his lips.
“Your… your hands are warm.”
“Living things are warm,” Neah said.
“Are you? Alive?”
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Neah touched the slant of Link’s cheekbone;
Link sighed. He really did. It was a sound both strange and beautiful. There
was a sadness to it that unnerved Neah. “Silly prince. Stupid boy.”
“I really must be,” Link said, tilting his fine chin up towards Neah,
“completely stupid. If I haven’t just gone well and completely crazy, then
that’s it.” A soft sound from him, then, perhaps an attempted laugh? “Yes, that
has to be it. I’ve just become an absolute fool. An absolute fool absolutely.”
“And I love you for it,” Neah agreed earnestly.
Link turned back over on to his side, cheek nuzzling against Neah’s thigh.
“Why don’t you come down here with me?” He asked. Then, before Neah could so
much as react, “I mean, lie down with me.” Neah could feel Link’s body shake
around the vibrations of another odd little un-laugh. He peeked up at Neah, his
pristine face drawn up into an expression that was very close to wonder.
“Forgive me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”
“Shh,” Neah said, thrilled enough by the invitation to draw closer, to be held.
 “I’d love to. Just lift your head, okay?”
Sweetly, Link obeyed. Neah shifted to the side, edging further down the bed to
lie down next to Link. He turned on to his side, right there, face level with
Link’s. Close. Close enough that Neah could’ve catalogued his each and every
eyelash, the thin flutter of them against Link’s pale cheek. And Link’s lips
were right there, so wonderfully near to him.
“Hi,” Neah whispered, squirming closer, the flat of his body moving up against
Link’s. Link’s lips twitched. Maybe he was fighting a smile.
Neah’s hands, slung around Link, fell to Link’s hips. As he toyed suggestively
with his waistband, he leaned in. He couldn’t have kept himself from kissing
Link; the chains had snapped. Love commanded his body forwards. Heart
fluttering like a bird, he pressed a delicate, lingering kiss to Link’s lower
lip. Then, emboldened by the touch of Link’s hands settling at the small of his
back, he leaned in again, kissing link full on the lips. Soft, wanting.
“This isn’t quite what I had in mind,” Link said.
Neah pinched the skin above Link’s hips. Link let out a breath against Neah’s
cheek.
“It’s what I had in mind.”
“Of course it is.” Link held Neah a little closer, his arms coming to wrap
around Neah’s wais. “Maniac.”
“But you like me,” Neah kissed the tip of Link’s nose, coy as a child. “You
like this maniac.”
“I don’t object to you,” Link said, very gravely. Neah laughed, or maybe
giggled was the term; the sound was lighter-than-air. Link’s embrace was the
only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He could’ve headed for the sky,
like a dove.
Like a sylph. 
“Are you still tired, Link?” He was still fiddling with Link’s waistband, still
playing with the idea of climbing between his legs. Link huffed; the apples of
his cheeks had flushed a rosy red. 
“I never claimed to be.”
“And I can see right through you,” Neah said. He pressed his lips to the side
of Link’s face, muffling his laughter there. There was a purr to his voice when
he continued, deep and throaty, “My poor, poor Sleeping Beauty.”
“Am I under a curse?” Link asked, voice soft but imbued with a genuine
curiosity.
“A very nasty one,” Neah confirmed. “But don’t worry. I have the perfect thing
to wake you up.”
A twitch in Link’s hands, now. Neah recognized it with perfect acuity, with a
flush of excitement that lit up the whole of his body.
Link always became restless when he was considering sex.
Nervously, his eyes jumping up and down Neah’s face, he asked, “Do you, now?”
“Uh-huh,” Neah smiled.  “My very own counterspell.”
“I don’t suppose it’s true love’s kiss?” Link probed. He swung his knees back
and forth. Stretched his ankles. “I may not be a savant of classical ballet,
but I do have a working knowledge of fairy tales.”
“It may be a little more involved than a kiss,” Neah admitted.
“Should I be concerned?”
“Not at all,” Neah tilted his head downwards and kissed Link’s clothed
shoulder. Coquettish, or at least trying to be. “This is all for your benefit,
Link.”
A real laugh tumbled out of Link, as if very much by accident.
“Somehow, I’m not so sure.”
Neah wouldn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he pressed his palm down
flat over the mattress and used it to push himself upright. Obedient even now,
Link stayed put, taking Neah in blearily with black-blown eyes.
Neah crawled down the mattress, down the length of Link’s body — and self-
consciously, Link began to shift against the sheets.
The sound of Link’s body slipping over the fabric created a somewhat pleasant
sound; it was a slick kind of rustle. It brought something about the situation
into relief; that Link was here, in Neah’s bed.Where he belonged, as far as
Neah was concerned — certainly more than he belonged in Leverrier’s big white
house.
Link was as good as a corpse in that neat, clean bed. Neah was sure of that.
“Tell me,” Link murmured. “Are you going to break my curse, or simply replace
it with one of your own making?”
Still resting on his haunches, Neah settled in between Link’s legs.
“Honestly, which would you prefer?”
“I don’t know,” Link answered. His measured tone was disturbed by the decidedly
unmeasured pace of his breathing; his chest heaved upwards with each inhale.
Looking at Neah, chin tilted down against his collarbone, he seemed (completely
by accident) to be the most impossibly erotic creature on earth. “I truly,
truly couldn’t say.”
“It doesn’t matter anyways,” Neah said. Link rolled onto his back, spread out
like a sacrifice over the sheets. Martyr-boy, Prometheus. “Just spread your
legs and let me work my magic.”
Link didn’t say anything. Just followed Neah with his eyes, silent, knowing.
Neah knew a thing or two about curses. After all, he’d been living with one for
five years now — a terrible, uniquely human curse. The death bane of the
Campbells; their terror, their most beloved ghost. They edged around it, buried
it in silence. After all, the name of a curse was an invitation to calamity:
even the neighbours seemed to understand as much, always referring to the curse
in veiled, shrouded terms. Katerina’s son, your brother, that little boy with
his too-long hair.
Neah had lived with his curse long enough not to fear it; only hate it. Mana,
Mana, Mana. Stupid fucking brat, face dripping with fat, hot tears.
(Mana’s tears had always come down as big as pennies.)
Petipa, Pavlova, the White Russians and Danish purists — they were
cursebreaking experts. After all, what was ballet but an exorcism set to music?
Neah had been mesmerized the first time he’d seen Swan Lake; and moreover, he’d
been struck with a strange, hysteric understanding. This was the world’s
greatest and most desperate curse-story, with mad-eyed magicians and women
caged in white swan bodies. And then there was The Sleeping Beauty, ballet’s
most constant companion. Giselle and Ondine.
From the Kirov Ballet, Neah learned this: that love, love was the greatest
spellbreaker of all.
In neat blonde hair and mud-brown eyes, Neah had discovered it, that most
esoteric of magics. His cure. His way out.
Neah lowered himself down to his stomach, Link’s legs spread uncertainty around
Neah’s body.
Neah had never considered himself to be overtly sexual before meeting Link, but
now, he was hungry for it. For touch, for sex, the tandem power and the
intimacy it promised him.
There were thoughts of Link’s sex, Link’s body. Things it had done to him.
Things it hadn’t done to him. They’d done a few things, sure, but not
everything — and that’s what Neah wanted. Link’s everything.
“How’s the view?” Neah asked coyly, noticing Link’s eyes on him, Link’s parted
lips. He placed his hands delicately on Link’s hips. “You like this, watching
me get down between your thighs?”
“I,” Link licked his lips, eyes darting away. “I don’t...”
He trailed off, biting his lower lip.
Dirty piece of shit fucking pervert liar.
Neah wanted to watch him come.
“You’re such an awful liar, Link,” he sighed, leaning forwards to nuzzle up
against Link’s inner thigh, the hot fabric of his pants scratching at his
cheek. At the contact, Link let out a soft, surprised sound— always so
sensitive, so responsive. “You don’t need to go so flustered. I’m glad you like
me here. Because I like being here. I like doing this. You know,” he lifted his
chin, brought his face up against Link’s clothed cock and rubbed it there like
a contented cat, “sucking you off.”
He nosed against Link’s cock affectionately, drawing in the familiar musky
smell of him, outlining the familiar length. It twitched against his cheek,
already fucking half-hard.
Disgusting.
Sickening.
Neah’s prince, this libidinous, irredeemable creature. Did he lie awake at
night, palming himself, thinking of Neah gagging on his cock? Did he jack off
to the memory Neah’s tongue dragging its way up his shaft, face all screwed up
in pleasure? Poor darling, thrusting up into the tunnel of his hand. Coming
alone in the dark with these cute, bitten-off cries. Neah Neah Neah!
“I read recently — and this is funny — that masturbation is usually the first
secret a child keeps from their parents,” Neah laughed softly, lifting his
head. "Of course, I've been keeping secrets from Katerina much longer than
that. I was a precocious child."
“What— what are you talking about?” Link asked heavily. Harshly.
Neah pursed his lips around a slow, indulgent smile.
"Before I met you, I never really thought about anything while jerking off," he
went on. He could feel his own breathing picking up, beyond his control. Each
exhale seemed to rise and roll out of his chest with an oceanic violence. Like
the rivertide beating against the stones.
“Before me?” Link was breathless. Neah nodded slowly.
"I would lie on my back, empty my mind. And I would just touch myself. Just
touch. You know? There was something very perfunctory about it; just satisfying
a physical urge. Like scratching an itch. I'd just touch myself, get myself
off, then roll over and go back to whatever I was doing before."
Link planted his hands flat against the bed, pushing himself half-upright. Bent
at the waist, his breaths were coming from him quick and fast, like a
frightened animal. The look in his eyes, though, was anything but fearful.
Intense, astonished.
But he wasn’t afraid.
"I," Link's lower lip was trembling. His voice was so, so raw, like his words
were being ripped from him. Torn away from the wholecloth of him. "I never, I
hardly… o-oh!"
Link bit his lip, an elegant little gesture, and let it go with a quiet moan.
Neah had tugged his zipper down and was reaching for him. He wrapped a delicate
hand around the base of Link’s cock.
"Go on, baby," Neah said. He stroked Link once in a slow, upwards motion. Link
let out a surprised gasp, hips jerking forward into Neah’s touch. Encouraged,
Neah stroked him again, hand sliding up and down the length of Link’s hot,
heavy cock.
Link slumped back against the mattress again, braid curling like a question
mark over the cotton. He was making a foul expression, eyes at half-mast, face
flushed. It took every instinct in Neah’s body not to start rutting against the
bed.
Instead, he leaned in close. He pressed his dry lips to the side of Link’s
dick, just taking him in. The scent of him was warm and musky. It made Neah
think of tidepools, of a rising, foamy crest, of the seas he’d never seen.
White-tipped. Salty-sweet.
He parted his lips. He pressed a wet, open kiss near the bottom of Link’s cock,
then another, tongue trailing up towards the head to lavish him, to worship
him. Mouthing nearer to the tip, he repeated himself, cock pounding between his
thighs, Link’s taste overwhelming him, “Go on, baby. Talk to me.”
He’d never called Link baby before. Would Link like that? He found himself
hoping that Link wouldn’t, that Link would turn him over and hit him for it.
On what side of the ampersand, Neah wondered, do I fall in the S&M construct?
A little of column A, a little of column B.
"Christ, Neah,” Link grit out. Neah released his mouth from the tip of Link’s
cock and looked up, innocuous. Link’s eyes were flashing, angry and… ashamed,
maybe. Desperately turned on, desperately dirty, and all for Neah. “Before I
met you, I.. hardly ever je— touched myself."
“Really?” 
"Hardly, hardly ever,” Link confessed. Neah closed his lips around Link’s cock,
and he gasped again, hips shaking. His hands jumped up into Neah’s hair. They
held there. “My God,” he said, voice falling to this harsh whisper. “I'd, I’d
go weeks without it."
“That’s strange,” Neah said, pulling his mouth away. Link let out a quiet sound
in response. It was the sound of mixed relief and dismay. “Why?”
Link shook his head against the sheets, no. 
“No,” he began to say, “no, I don’t want to talk—”
“Link.”
“— about this, Neah, I really don’t—”
“Link,” Neah demanded. Breaths skating over Link’s cock. Lips still pressed
just beneath the head, one hand squeezing Link, rolling down to cup his balls.
“Tell me why.”
Link’s fingers threaded through Neah’s hair. He was fully hard now, and
gorgeously reactive. Gorgeous in the frantic up-down-up-down of his chest. His
heart and lungs, Neah imagined, were going like crazy. They were pulsing and
jumping beneath his skin, sloppy and red, spastically and life-givingly wild. 
"It felt wrong,"Link said. "Sometimes I would start to, but I'd force myself to
stop before I c— before I finished. I'd just start feeling sick. Panicked."
“Panicked?” Neah repeated.
Link’s fingers curled a little tighter. Tight enough to hurt, just a little. 
"I could feel eyes opening up all over the room,” he said, “all around me. Big,
white walls of eyes, all trained on me."
A thrill sliced through Neah, sharp as a tack.
"Do you feel them now?"
“No.” 
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“God damn it, Ne— a-ah!”
Link tipped his head back and moaned , moaned loud and long as Neah pumped his
fist up over Link’s spit-slicked cock. His hands went lax, eyes glazing over
with the milky hazy of pleasure. A transculent pearl of precome had gathered at
the tip, and Neah brushed over it with his thumb— bringing it to his lips
slowly, deliberately. It had a strange, animal taste, thick and murky. But it
was him, and he had done this to Link. And that made it the most intoxicating
taste in the world.
"Do you still feel it, Howard?” Neah asked again, fingernails digging into
Link’s hips. “That wall of eyes?"
"Yes," he said, speaking in this broken, frantic whisper, half-gasping, half-
keening. He thrusted up helplessly, jerking up against Neah’s hand, a gesture
that went straight to Neah’s cock. “God, yes, yes , I feel it, and they’re
everywhere, and I can’t—”
"Do you feel sick?" Neah asked innocently.
Link shook his head violently.
"I feel," he gritted out, "like I can't stop myself.”
“And why should you stop?”
There was a shake in Link’s knees, a light sheen of sweat on the column of his
neck. His mouth was wet and very pink, the lower lip lush and swollen from
biting it. He raised his hips pathetically, body following it upwards into this
catlike arc, so perfectly erotic that Neah couldn’t resist slipping a hand down
between his own legs and palming over his dick.
“There’s no sense holding back,” Neah said quietly, left hand trapped between
his own thighs, squeezing over his dick. “Not with me, Link. Not with me.”
“God, please,” Link’s voice cut through, sudden. It was like the hinge in him
had broken off. Voice teetering wonderfully close to open pleas, he went on and
on, “please don’t stop, don’t stop, it feels— please, please, what have you
done to me, Neah, pleaseputyourmouthonme.”
“Say that again?” Neah laughed lightly. His left hand was trapped between his
thighs, squeezing over his crotch.
 Link’s lashes looked wet, face blurry. A window streaked with rain. Pale and
bloodless, his lips matched the milky, placid shade of his cool skin. They
parted, a shockingly pretty pink tongue darting out between—
 "Put your mouth,” he begged, “on me. Please.”
 Ah.
 Neah could hardly refuse such a gracious request.
Not from the boy he loved, the boy he loathed.
With one hand, he fumbled with his zipper, reaching haphazardly to pull himself
out. With the other, he gripped the base of Link’s length steady.
I fall in love with you more and more every day,he thought. His mouth closed
over Link’s cock, taking it up and down slowly and softly, Link’s shaft riding
up the wet slide of his tongue. Neah wanted his mouth to feel like velvet to
Link. Like silk.
 I fall in love with you more and more every day. More than I’ve loved
anything, more than anyone could. You know that, right? My disgusting, hideous,
piece of shit pervert scumbag.
My gallant, golden prince.
"I love doing this," Neah panted, coming up to breathe, to suck and lap at the
sides of Link, "I must have an oral fixation."
He laughed a humming laugh. The vibration must’ve done something for Link,
because his grip on Neah’s hair resumed its previous strength, so perfectly,
deliriously rough that Neah could’vecried. 
"I love how big you are,” he went on, high and needy, “the way my jaw strains
around you. I love the way you taste, the way you smell. I love it when you
come all over my face. You always come so much, Link.”
He was jerking himself, now, stroking over his cock fast and uneven, matching
the stuttering rhythm of Link’s breaths. 
“I guess I know why, now,” he said. “You don’t play with yourself enough, do
you?"
Neah kissed the leaking tip of Link’s cock.
“When you jerked off to the scent of Allen’s shirt, when you wrapped it around
your dick — were you able to finish?” He asked, nose still pressed against
Link’s length, big and dark and red. “Pumping your cock to the thought of Allen
Walker, surrounded by eyes, being consumed by eyes, eyes...”
Link dragged the blunt of his nails across Neah’s scalp. Neah might’ve winced
if it hadn’t felt so fucking good.
“It’s okay,” he then demurred, suddenly as shy as a servant, as a slave. “You
don’t have to answer that. I don’t really care. After all, you’ve been jerking
off to thoughts of me, haven’t you? Allen Walker’s never done this for you,
after all. It’s alright.” 
And my eyes, my eyes see you more clearly than all the eyes of the world.
I see you, Link.
I see you.
Link yanked Neah's head back down, mean and rough, and Neah accept his
brutality gratefully, opening his mouth and covering his teeth to take Link as
deep as he could.
Sucking Link, touching himself. Thinking about Link thrusting up into the soft
gray cotton of Allen Walker’s gym shirt, like he could fuck Allen by proxy. A
wall of eyes, all Allen’s eyes. How could they not be his? He thought of Link’s
body, all shining agate. The gray shirt stretching over his features like a
mask.
Sucking Link, touching himself. Neah felt like a whore.
Somehow, he didn’t mind that.
Next time, he would have Link take off all his clothes first. He would watch
the muscles in his stomach twitch and jump, his shoulders straining, his hard
thighs trembling.
He wanted to tell Link about the dream. The dream of Katerina’s garden. He
wanted to tell him about the way Link’s dream-hands had spread Neah’s thighs
apart. He wanted to tell him about the way Link had thrown his dream-head back
in an ecstasy so perfectly erotic.
He wanted to tell Link about the way he’d buried himself in Neah, the way he’d
fucked Neah like Neah belonged to him. And how Neah had liked it.
He wanted to say, You know, Link, I keep having this dream… over, and over, and
over. This dream of being yours forever, unalterably. Isn’t that funny?
He wanted to say,Link, turn me over and take my virginity. For real.
And I will be only yours. I swear to God.
His dream was not Ashton’s dream, or Macmillan’s dream, or Balanchine’s dream
or Petipa’s dream, but it was a good dream, as fierce and as challenging as
Firebird and as moving and as thorough as La Sylphide.
Link shouted when he came. The sound of it was sharp, loud. Loud enough that
Katerina would’ve certainly known what they were doing, had she been home.
Link’s hands went very still in Neah’s hair as he spilled into Neah’s mouth,
messy and without warning.
The taste of him was heavy and salty and not entirely pleasant.
Neah reared back slowly, letting Link’s spend rest on his tongue as he admired
his own handiwork. Link’s cock was still twitching, oversensitive and slowly
softening, shiny with spit. Some of his come had leaked down from the tip, wet,
white-ish, vaguely opaque. The sight of it was downright pornographic.
Neah lifted his gaze. Link’s eyes were bleary-hot. He was breathing hard. His
hands were still vaguely, gently gripping Neah’s hair. He looked terrible, like
he’d just committed a crime against grace. Neah liked that very much.
With some difficulty, Neah began to swallow, come dribbling from the corner of
his mouth. Slopping down over his chin, warm, animal, practically disgusting.
 As his throat worked around Link’s release, he began to stroke himself a
little faster. Gasps tearing from his slick, shiny lips.
He’d never felt so filthy in all his life.
With a vacant look of amazement, Link watched Neah spill into his own hand,
whining and panting, messy with Link’s release, with his own.
They lay there, breathing hard. Shocked with themselves, amazed with
themselves. Neah slumped back down, head resting against Link’s thigh. A summer
breeze shook the blinds, a trapezoid of slatted light beaming right over Link’s
face before tumbling back into place.
“Your curse is lifted,” Neah said, at last. He kissed Link’s thigh. “I have
exorcised you, elevated you. You are free, and free to thank me as you choose.”
Link stirred, tilting his head forwards to stare down at Neah. His eyes were
humming softly, like oil behind glass.
“Free, or simply on a longer leash.”
“Ah, well,” Neah said amicably. “At least a leash can be pulled from both
ends." 
“I suppose that’s true.” Link softened his gaze. Neah had the impression Link
was no longer focused on him and was lost in his own thoughts.
“Certainly,” Neah hummed. Link started fumbling with his clothes, putting his
spent dick away, zipping himself up. Neah rested his head in his hands, amused.
“Maybe free really is the wrong term. I’m not trying to offer you freedom.
Freedom is so lonely. I only want for you to be bound to something better.” 
“And you and I, we’re bound together?” Link asked. 
“Handcuffed at the heart,” Neah agreed. Then, when Link frowned, he asked,
“What, does that sound pessimistic?”
“No, no,” Link shook his head. “Not overly, at least. It’s… a good way of
putting it. Like it or not, I do feel tethered to you. The way you tether a
domesticated animal. I don’t resent the fact, though. I don’t think… you’re the
one that tethered me. If I’m bound to anything, I think it’s my own
fascination. Or perhaps my own se— you know what? I don’t know what I’m talking
about. It’d probably be in your best interest to forget all that.” He patted
Neah’s head. “Thank you, Neah.” 
“Aren’t I lovely?”
“You are,” Link’s voice was unkind, full of blame. “Impossibly so.”
“Impossibly?” Neah asked lightly. He had the feeling of being in bloom. He
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and was quietly delighted to see a
smear of Link’s pleasure come away against his skin.
“In ways you shouldn’t be. In ways nobody should be.”
“Ah-ah,” Neah waved a finger, “but you love me for it. You love me.” 
Link sighed as if defeated.
“I certainly can’t get you out of my head.”
He sounded sincere. That was enough to make Neah happy.
Neah rolled away from Link’s legs, squirming forwards up the bed to lie beside
him. He saw from the digital clock on the nightstand that it was two thirty.
He’d told Link they had all the time in the world, but was that even true?
“I love you too, Link,” Neah said. He curled in close, close enough to press a
shy little kiss to Link’s cheek. “I really do.”
“That was never in doubt,” Link sighed.
“Glad to hear it,” Neah smiled warmly. He reached up to touch Link’s face. Link
frowned.
“Sometimes, when you touch me, I get the strangest feeling,” he said. He lay
back, eyes at half-mast, body soft and pliant. “I feel like I’m watching you
touch yourself.”
Neah laughed out loud; the sound of it was abrupt and a little harsh, even to
his own ears.
“That is very strange, Howard.”
“Yes,” Link agreed warily, “it is.” He closed his eyes and sighed.  “I’m not in
the habit of expressing my stranger thoughts. But you’ve been honest with me,
in your own way. So, it only seems right that I… attempt to return the favour.”
“You’re sweet to me,” Neah smiled. He touched Link’s cheek. He ran the pad of
his thumb up the slope of his skeleture, right over the place he’d kissed.
 “When you touch me, Link, I feel… I feel like I’m floating. Floating over
water. You’re my lifeboat, Link.”
“Am I really?”
“Yes,” Neah said. He felt the palm of his heart close into a fist. “A lifeboat
on a shit-filled human ocean. More like tar than water. You get what I mean,
don’t you?” Dizziness, heat. A figure standing in half-darkness, face buried in
a gray cotton shirt.  Growing desperate, growing hysteric, he asked, “You know
how it feels, right? Shit up to your neck, over your head. Trying to breathe,
only managing to swallow. You know? You know?”
Link turned over. He stared. His stare was sad and soft and pityingly fond and
for a second, half a second, reminded Neah of Katerina. Which was terrifying.
Neah did the only thing he could think to do, just then: he smiled. It was an
ugly smile, even he could tell. The smile of either a madman or a boy close to
tears.
“Did I scare you? I’m sorry.” He looked away from Link’s face. He was struck
then by the numbing beauty of Link’s shoulder blades. The soothing shape of his
body, solid and masculine.  “I feel really good right now, I swear. Really
calm. You’re so good to me.”
Link closed his eyes again, releasing a small sigh.
“Alright, Neah.”
“I keep thinking about how things will be when we’re older,” Neah said. “How
much better they’ll be. How we can be alone together as long as we like.
I’ll... breathe you. Eat you, drink you.”
Link said nothing. He didn’t even open his eyes. He just slung one arm around
Neah’s waist. He held him. That was good. That was wonderful, everything Neah
had ever wanted. Although Link wasn’t watching him, he tried another smile
anyways. One from the heart.
“Fine. I’ll stop talking,” Neah went on gently. “I can tell you’re in the mood
to rest. Honestly, I’m the same. So long as you’re in my bed, I think I could
sleep a million years. I could sleep through a firebombing.”
“That would be funny,” Neah said. He tucked his head against Link’s chest.
“It would be really funny,” Neah said. “The whole town, bursting and burning,
death in the streets. What I’m imagining, it’s downright apocalyptic. Do you
remember those videos of Hiroshima they showed our class in the seventh grade?
For world history? Half the class started crying.”
“Allen Walker cried,” Neah laughed. It was a very hollow laugh. He suddenly
felt somewhat queasy. His chest felt tight, constricted by the pangs of some
inward sickness. “I think I was the only one who saw him cry, though. He cries
very quietly, and with almost no expression. But he was wiping his eyes and
nose with his sleeve. I saw that.”
“Anyways,” he said. “The Hiroshima film. Those are the images that keep coming
into my head. That level of absolute… haha, um, absolute atomic devastation, I
guess, only concentrated to just this town. Some of the townsfolk would just
die in the initial blast. Kind of a merciful death, actually. So many would
meet their own ends hours later, trapped in burning buildings, or crushed
beneath great pillars or falling debris. The creek turning steadily red.”
“Ash coming down like a summer snow.”
Just then, so many things seemed to go through Neah’s mind; he was overwhelmed
with ideas, with images, with thoughts. He could see Link’s living obelisk, his
wall of eyes in the back of his mind. Those eyes, those red-limned eyes, they
reached through Neah; not so much in judgement or reproach, but for something
far scarier. And beneath their stare came several thoughts: I am in love with
Howard Link. I despise Howard Link. I want to lose my virginity to Howard Link.
And to be alone, to be completely alone with Howard Link... I want— I want—
“But you and I,” Neah said, his voice so strangely glassy, “we’d still be
tucked into bed together. Sleeping through the end of the world.”
“You’d be holding me, like this,” Neah said.
And then;
“I just think it would be funny.”
Link lifted a hand to cradle the back of Neah’s skull. An unspeakably, almost
unbearably tender gesture. Neah could’ve cried with happiness. He could’ve wept
like a chils. Like an Allen Walker moved by compassion.

“You’re tired,” Neah said. “Right?” 
“A little,” Link murmured. “But I won’t sleep.” Then, without prompting at all,
“That wasn’t funny at all, Neah.” 
“I know.”
“Then—”
“I feel really happy when your arms are around me,” Neah said. “I feel really
happy right now. Let’s just focus on that.”
Link didn’t answer. And that was okay. He didn’t have to. He was curled up on
his side, facing Neah, breathing deeply. His face looked smooth and clear, like
a child’s. You’d think he was asleep, if it weren’t for the fact he was
frowning very slightly. It was interesting kind of frown, kind of soft, his
brow remaining miraculously uncreased. Neah wondered if he was a little cold.
The AC was whirring at full-power.
Neah could hear the clock ticking out the hallway, a gutter creaking, the
ancient, too-loud refrigerator humming. A loon called out twice, slicing
through the afternoon.
He reached up and touched his throat. It felt tight and very heavy.
It took him a moment to realize there was a scream trapped in there. It was
building up in him like a blockage, like a tumor. 
He wondered when it would come free.
 
End Notes
     fuckhowardlink @ twitter
     continuing this goddamn fic 6 months later, i know, i'm shocked too
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