Young Writers Society

Boris concluded his completely civil and nonjudgemental conversation with the tragically ill-dressed youth, and headed for the circle of people around the firepit to see if they needed any extra hands.

Damascus smiled at James, and sat contentedly for awhile, using the newfound clarity of his mind to once again do his part in clearing the dirt for a fire. Something else came over him, and he looked up once to scan the clearing again.

It was just as well that he did, for there, across the way, was none other than Boris Dietrich, walking toward him.

He gave a little start, and then a pause, and then he was standing. Before he could gain control of his limbs, he was bounding toward Boris, determination filling him.

When he finally came to stop, a few feet away, he knew he would have to act soon, or he would loose his nerve. Already, he was breathless, and his cheeks were tinged slightly. He smiled, amused at his own mixture of timidness and giddy.

"Boris," he started, his voice affected. "Would you take a walk with me?"

Boris stopped in his tracks at the sight of him.

Damascus, alight and aflutter, in a state that left little question of what could be on his mind. The contagion of his excitement could not be denied, the second the words were set free they caught hold of Boris, and took root in his imagination.
There was only one matter between the two of them that needed to be addressed, and it was impossibly unlikely that Damascus would be so full of joyful anticipation if he meant to turn him down.

Boris tried his best not to internalize this, just in case there was some other thing he had overlooked, in case he was twisting Damascus to fit the narrative of his desire.

He could no longer remember a life where he did not anxiously wait for the answer he had once feared. The answer to a force that had overpowered its vessel and left only silent, unshakable craving since. He had been able to keep it in the back of his mind, most days, but he could banish it no more than he could banish the marrow in his bones.

But he had to be gentle, and patient. He had to let Damascus speak his mind, before he said anything that might make him feel pressed in any direction.

"Of course." Boris replied. His voice was calm, sensitive, it held barely any trace of the pleading and the yearning that possessed him. But he knew that fight was already lost. The truth was written all over him. Damn it all.

Boris had no doubts that whatever Damascus had decided, he had thought over thoroughly, but all the same, the question had been troubling him ever since they reunited in the church.

"How long has it been for you, since we parted?" he asked, quietly.

Damascus started off in the direction of the trees, taking mind to not stray too far, but to create a more intimate setting. The setting sun glowed softly between the leaves, and he studied it, breathing in slowly. It was a moment before he realized that Boris had spoken, and he turned, contemplating this.

"It's been a year," he said softly in reply. "only a year."

He stopped walking for a moment, and looked down at his feet, mustering his words. When he looked up once more, there was a melancholy note in his expression, though a joy still rested behind his eyes.

"When we first met again," he started gently. "...this morning, I suppose. Goodness. When I first saw you, I thought- I thought that a year was nothing, that it was far too soon."

He smiled, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he eased into all that he wanted to say.

"Now, all I can think is that a year is a terribly long time to be away from-" he caught himself, about to take the coward's path out of habit, to say 'everyone'.

He remedied this with putting strength into his truth.

"A year is a terribly long time to be away from you." he finished, his eyes catching and holding Boris' with conviction.

For the first time since the dance, Boris met Damascus' eyes as gladly and as easily as when they were children. He grinned, an honest, mildly pained sort of grin.

"A year? Well done you, you soldier. It was merely ten months for me, and out of them it only took one to reduce me to the pale beast you see before you. No, really, I am a shade sallower than usual, you'll have to take my word for it." he joked.

A smile curled at Damascus' lips, and he felt a little sigh of relief at this easy reception. He decided that this was the way to take it: slow, steady, and with an ease that he desperately needed to be between them.

Gently, achingly, almost as if he couldn't help himself, he reached out and smoothed his palm across Boris' cheek. His smile attested that it was playful, but his eyes told another story.

"I suppose I will," he murmured. "I can't tell the difference."

He let his hand rest a moment, before bringing it back down and instead stepping closer. Another steadying breath strengthened his shoulders, and he let the first of his stones fall where it would.

"Boris." He said quietly. "I've had plenty of time to think, but I don't think that that was the best thing for me. This should be thought through, of course, but..."

He paused, and then lifted his hand timidly, testing, and reached to grab Boris'.

"What I'm trying to say is," he sobered one last time, cleared his throat, and then dove in. "...I love you. Truly and completely. And that was the part that I kept denying. I won't. I won't deny it any longer."

His eyes shone with emotion, and he cleared his throat a second time, pressing back an onset of tears.

"And as for everything, everything else- well, frankly, everything else is insignificant." Now he held James' advice, just in reach, and took it to heart, relied on it.

"And that's not to say it won't be hard, for the both of us. I want to be with you, Boris... not just in passing, or by chance. I want to see you every time the whim possesses us. I know, I know I can't have that treasure, but I believe it would be even more of a tragedy to deny smaller blessings because of it."

James stacked the wood and started the fire. Knowing the intentions behind Damscus's temporary parting from the group put him at peace as he breathed and fanned the flame to get it going. He sat on the edge of the fire pit that they'd worked together to make and looked over to Siren, the only one remaining beside him, since Damascus had left with Boris and Maahes was reuniting with Edward.

"How are you faring in all of this?" he asked casually to the angel-fied merfrog.

Siren joined James in the fanning of the fire, using her wings to make a careful breeze.

"Wings aren't like fins at all. They're not naked. They're soft, and heavy. And they make fwoosh noises! Fwoosh fwoosh." she whispered, over the soft beating noise.

"I hope you're not sad that you didn't get to be a duck, too. But whatever you are looks fun, too! You have a swishy tail, and you can-" she stopped. Her eyes slowly grew very wide. She had just had a brilliant idea.

Siren sat down to pick some daisies, and began to string them together, grinning her wide, sharp grin.

"Don't ask me what I was about to say." she said. "It's a secret."

After a minute had passed, she presented James with a daisy chain.

"You can hang these on your horns!" Siren exclaimed proudly.

James only blinked as Siren abruptly stopped speaking and hurried around, picking daisies, and making a small chain of them, stringing them in a circle. He had absolutely no idea what prompted her to suddenly start making a flower crown, but when she presented it to him, he found himself at a loss for words.

Memories from his childhood came flooding back to him like a sudden wind: his little sister beside him with her face glowing with excitement. Him placing a flower crown on her head, and her, with small, stubby fingers, placing a flower behind his ear.

The memory fled as quickly as it came, and he leaned forward ever so slightly as if to grasp it. His eyes fell to Siren, and he desperately tried not to see his little sister in her. Stiffly, he reached out to take the string of daisies.

"Thank you," he said, reaching up in an attempt to find where his horns started and where they began. When he finally felt the tips of them, he lifted the crown over it and let it slide down the horns and around his head.

There was nothing to stand between them. Damascus had taken his time, a being who knew the ravages of the ages more intimately than anyone else could, to him, it was worth it all.

There was nothing left to deny, or to hold back. Finally, it was only them. It was only truth. Boris had no reason left to censor or abridge the words that were in his heart. He let them spill forth, freely, zealously, caution, composure, all else be damned.

“I will always yearn for you, as long as I draw breath, and longer still, but for this...! for what we have, I feel blessed beyond comprehension.

Have me.”

Boris let go of Damascus’ hand, and threw his arms around him. He leaned in, nuzzled his face into Damascus’ neck, and whispered into his ear, hungrily, desperately.

“Have me, Damascus.”

A shiver drew its way instantly up Damascus' spine, and before he had become aware of himself again, his arms were snaked around Boris' waist, pulling him close. As his heart swelled and the woozy intoxication of this- of how right it was- took over him, he struggled to think straight.

Now, however, he didn't have to. And it was deeply alluring.

His face turned, searching with a timid urgency. And then

And then his lips found Boris', in the euphoria they had created. He was gentle, exploring, and yet firm in what he wanted, inspired by Boris' assertiveness.

((Hey, I'm so sorry I haven't posted in so long. Been so busy!))

Rose had gone to sit in the shelter, feeling like there was nothing more she could do, and she was out of the way in the shelter. She leaned back, listening to the murmur of the trees, and fell asleep.

In Damascus he drowned blissfully, surrendered wholly, greedily tangled his fingers in the soft black curls, never wanting to come undone.

They stumbled forth, Boris saw an opportunity, he steered them both into a nearby tree and pressed the demon against it.

He let their lips draw apart, only to kiss him again, and again. Fiercely, fiercely, and then soft, with a final brush across his cheek, before he released his grip, and rested his face upon Damascus' shoulder again.

They clumsily slid to the ground.

There, Boris laid his head upon Damascus' lap, wrapped a wing over his legs, and snuggled blindly.

Damascus couldn't stop sighing, even as his heart ceased its gallops and he leaned his head steadily against the tree. His eyes were bright, his hair wild, and his cheeks flushed, and if it hadn't been for the warm contentment that enveloped him, he would have been stunned.

His arms held Boris fast in his lap, both keeping him there and relishing the notion that he was able to hold him, to have him. He hadn't pulled his hands away from Boris even once, and he didn't contemplate ever letting go.

Between his sighs, and holding Boris, he stroked a hand lovingly through his hair, and finally broke the peaceful silence.

"Boris," he started softly, leaning his head down so that he could press his lips against his temple. "promise you'll stay here with me, like this, until we absolutely have to go back."

Though he was contextually referring to their positions, and their retreat into each other, he also hinted at something he didn't quite want to speak of yet- that they would have to define their togetherness over separate realities, and at present, they were on borrowed time.

Boris buried his face in Damascus’ jumper, and gave a muffled reply. "Yes. Yes, I promise."

He would have given his soul never to leave his side. He had loved him, denied him, ached for him, even knowing that Damascus likely shared his feelings, and yet he never considered that good things sometimes just...happened. That they could just have each other.

And now that he had him, no ghost could breach the sanctity of their stolen time. Damascus was with him, and when Boris closed his eyes, he could feel him there, still there.

It was finally safe to call it 'love.'

He shook lightly in silent laughter, remembering the flustered mess that he had been, when he first said the word. Those moments, even the events of a few hours ago, felt as far away as the forest where they had first met.

"...Oh!"

Boris turned his head quite suddenly, and looked up at Damascus, his eyes shining with curious zeal.

"I can't believe this is the third time we've met since we were children, and still I've yet to ask you, how have your travels been? What year is it, on your Earth? Is it an Earth?"