Casual / Invested

—Orion—

It’s always so cute when they’re nervous. I tend to have that effect on people: they see the perfect, muscular physique and lose their absolute minds. There’s something different about that Otter though. Not sure what it is. He’s not my usual prey. I can tell he wants me, but it feels different somehow. I leave him on the funicular platform with a wink and a smile (he’s going to great lengths to not look me in the eye) and head down the path to the west, early evening breeze pricking my mohawk on the walk towards my dorm. Early day today, hardly anything needed fetching (at least not that needed my skills anyway) which I guess is a good thing, I have a reputation of only getting dangerous things (which is true, it’s my specialty) but sometimes I envy the gleaners who have easier assignments. Eh, where would be the thrill in that? I smile a secret smile, laugh a private laugh.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans, two short pulses. A reminder. Plenty of time, no need to worry about that right now. The sound of a sudden spray from my right catches me off guard, a mist rising into the air from a small building, humidity control. I must be off my game; those things don’t usually startle me. But that means I’m almost “home.” It’s one of the smaller dorm buildings out here at the edge, mostly gleaners like me in this one. I head inside and up the stairs to the second floor, flat 223. I press the button and the door slides open, the cloying scent of tobacco and sweat and cologne hitting me in the face.

The lights are off, but the room is illuminated by the tv on the opposite side, some video game on pause casting shadows from the sofa and chairs across the kitchen island and onto the cupboards and appliances. On the far end on the left is my room, the bigger of the two bedrooms. Nearer, on the right side, are the bathroom and Ricky’s room. I head inside towards my room, not announcing my presence, but also not making any effort to obscure it either. Ricky’s door is closed, the muted sounds of rhythmic bass and drums crudely covering the sounds of moaning and “ah, fuck me!” coming from inside. I chuckle. Go get ‘em, baby. I make my way past the trail of clothes that lead from his door to the sofa and to my door, opening it and closing it quietly on the other side, sound fading away.

I don’t have much here (bed, wardrobe, nightstand, all very barebones), it’s mostly just a place for me to crash. My real home, well… other home, is my flat on the other side of Covent Garden. Three bedrooms, but it’s mostly mine. Ricky’s brother Benji takes one of them when he’s in town and not sharing mine. A laugh escapes like a breath: I guess if dating twins was easy everyone would do it. It works for us. For now. I click on the lights and pop open the wardrobe, grabbing out my stringer vest and gym shorts, tossing them on the unmade double bed. Taking a seat next to them, I untie my boots and release my feet, stretching out the arches and my legs and setting the shoes next to my trainers. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I set it on the nightstand, the ignored reminder lighting up the screen. I peel off my Supreme tee and toss it aside, unbuttoning my jeans and sliding the denim down my legs as a great many inches finally has room to breathe. The clothes look great on me, but they’re a pain in the balls. With nothing on underneath, I slip on the shorts and stringer and grab my trainers before going back out into the main room.

The moaning has stopped, but the music is still playing so I guess they’re done for now. Not sure who he’s got in there so it might just be the end of round one or whatever. If it’s Bryce they’ll be at it all night and I’ll only see Ricky when he comes out for a water break, like a marathoner. I drop my shoes by the sofa and step into the kitchen, grabbing one of my water bottles from the cupboard along with the protein powder.

“Ah hey Ori, you’re back early,” comes a voice from my left, a slight southern American drawl to it. Ricky is standing in his now open doorway, not a shred of clothing or shame on him, backlit by the rainbow lights of that disco ball he’s got set up in there. He walks over and laces his arms around my midsection in a lazy hug, stretching his pointed face up to kiss my cheek. He’s an Armadillo, the top of his bald head only reaching my chest. His skinny body presses against mine, stinking of sweat and sex, of a job well done. I can’t help but laugh a little.

“Hey baby,” I say, kissing the top of his head, his rough scalp salty on my lips. “You having fun in there?”

“You know it.” He releases me and walks past the island, vaulting over the back of the sofa and giving me a nice view of his backside, nine rough bands bronzed along his spine from his shoulders to his tail, cheeks reddish and glistening, before lying down with his head hanging off the arm so he can still see me, tail dangling slightly over the back. “If you give me five minutes we could give you a workout here if you didn’t wanna go to the gym.” He smiles, long fingers reaching for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter on the coffee table. A whisper of movement catches my attention, a lanky Rat lad with fur like smudged charcoal on a white canvas bent over and picking up one of the pairs of trousers from the floor outside Ricky’s room. He looks up and we lock eyes. He freezes, unsure what to do, nose twitching slightly.

“Oh yeah,” says Ricky, lighting his cigarette. “Orion, Charlie, Charlie, Orion.” A puff of smoke ejects from his nostrils as he beckons the Rat over to the sofa, lifting his legs so he’ll have somewhere to sit.

“Hey,” I say, giving the lad a wink as I open the lid of my water bottle, scooping the powder in. He blushes a bit before slipping over to the sofa and taking a seat (trousers abandoned), Ricky dropping his legs onto his lap. I add water and close the bottle, giving it a firm shake as I walk around the island to the sofa, leaning in close to the Armadillo’s face.

“Tempting as your offer is, I’m working tonight and you know I dance better when I’m a little pent up.” I smile and lock my lips around his muzzle, the taste of minty nicotine on his kiss as our tongues fight for dominance. He taps out first, panting for breath as he pulls away. Charlie is decidedly not looking over at us, instead attempting to direct all of his attention to his video game (some shooter or something, I don’t know), but I can spy the familiar rush of blood to parts below. Ricky’s eyes widen slightly at the feel of it pressing against his thighs.

“Easy down there, I ain’t ready to go again just yet.” The red at the Rat’s face deepens. I can’t help but laugh. I head back into my room to grab my phone and gym bag, clicking off the lights as I exit and take a seat in the chair next to the sofa so I can put my trainers on. Ricky takes another drag from his cigarette, eyes never leaving me.

“You okay babe? You seem distracted.” He sighs smoke, ashing the cig in the tray on the table.

“Nah, everything’s fine,” I say, tying up the laces. I don’t know if that’s true or not. Ricky squints at me for a moment, then shrugs.

“If you say so babe.” He reaches up with his free hand grabs the back of my head, fingers running down my mohawk as he pulls me in for another kiss. Our lips part and I get to my feet. “Love you babe, have fun at work tonight” he says as I walk to the door of our flat. “Say ‘hi’ to Benji for me. By the way, your dick’s hangin’ out!” The door slides closed behind me in the hallway. I look down and laugh, adjusting my member back inside the leg of my shorts. That boy is a mess, but he makes me happy. Him and his brother both. It won’t last forever, I know, but for now…. I make my way back down the stairs and outside. The gym is just a short ways away, further on the west side. Mostly used by gleaners and the guys in security, it’s a nice communal space. I could just requisition the same equipment for my flat, but the social aspect of the gym is a big part of why I go. What’s the point in looking this good if no one’s there to see it? Plus, we all push each other, support each other, look out for each other.

I pull my earbuds out of my bag, slinging it over my shoulder and popping them in my ears. I’m feeling some weird complex emotion right now, not sure what it is. It’s not like I haven’t seen Ricky with other guys before. Hell, I’ve been with Ricky with other guys before… so it couldn’t be jealousy. Right? We’ve been a triad for a while now, but the sex has always been a casual thing so I shouldn’t be feeling any sort of way about it. Right…? No, not jealousy, more like… someone isn’t telling me something. Don’t know why I would be feeling that though. I thumb through the playlists on my phone, picking out one of the more mellow ones I work out too. Can’t let whatever this is get in the way right now, better to drown it out in the basslines. I turn the volume up, feet pounding the pathway in time with the music as I begin my jog to the gym.

* * *

The shower is cold (on purpose), and dinner light (not gaining this month). I catch up with some of the security guys as we swap stories, but my mind is elsewhere. My phone buzzes in my bag, two short pulses. Time to go get ready. I wave goodbye to the lads and sneak out the side door of the canteen, looping around to the road back to the dorms. Ricky’s door is closed again, another concert of exultation drifting from within. Back in my room I change into something a bit more smart: light blue polo shirt with tan shorts, a black snapback to complete the ensemble. I swap my gym bag for my work bag, transferring my phone and earbuds, double-checking my mask is in there along with my wallet and keys. As I walk back past Ricky’s door I kiss the tips of my fingers and press them against the frame. G’night Ricky. Don’t wear yourself out too much.

I make the walk to the west ingress plaza in silence, thoughts jumbling around in my head in a tangled mess. I slip on my mask in the ride on the express lift up to the surface. Museum’s closed at this point so I duck out of one of the service exits onto Montague. I’m kinda glad for it ‘cause I tend to get stares when I come out of the main gates. What? Buff guys can’t appreciate art?

It’s a few blocks south, heading towards Piccadilly. The night is mild and traffic is okay. People out on the streets ready for the weekend. I cross through the Soho Gardens. Not sure why, but I always do it, like a kind of ritual. Left on Dean and into the Soho district proper. I love this part of town with the bars and the shoppes and the energy, even if it’s all a bit commercialised. And just down this alley is it: Stallion. Almost poetic that I’d have a job as a dancer at an underground gay bar called fucking Stallion of all things. The entrance is nondescript, just a metal horse hanging over a red door painted black with windows pasted over to block out the light. Through that front door is a small entry room with security and whatnot, checking IDs and bags and making sure anyone who’s bringing a phone in puts a sticker over their camera (they’re very strict about the no cameras policy).

It’s Rocco at the door tonight, big bull of a man stuffed into too tight of an all-black jeans-and-t-shirt uniform. If he were a therian he’d be exactly the type I’d expect to find working security there too. I smile and wink at him and he blushes almost imperceptibly. There are precious few humans whom I let remember taking me to bed (never knowing, of course, what I really am), but he’s one of them. He wouldn’t tell anyone of course, he’s a huge fan of discipline and knows that he needs to be a good boy. I slither past Rocco, cut through the cloakroom, and to the backstage area and it is packed tonight. A long wall of mirrors and tabletops loaded with makeup and wigs and barely the width of two people opposite that a wall of costumes on coat hooks in lockers with no doors. Carefully as I can I move around the queens and other dancers just trying to find space where I can get undressed.

“Hunter, honey, you can use mine, I’m just finishing,” says a pretty blonde with a giant blue butterfly pinned in her hair.

“Merci K.C. The new wig looks great,” I say, shrugging my bag off and setting it on the vanity.

“Thanks. You don’t think this shade is too much?” Peacock blue on the eyes and lips. Too gaudy by half.

“On you? Perfection.” I smile and wink and she laughs in a falsetto, giving me a playful slap to my shoulder before walking away towards the front. I close my eyes, deep breath. Time to become Hunter. First off is the snapback. I mostly wear it so people outside wouldn’t recognise my human face, but I guess if it were really a problem I could always have the disguise changed. The face in question is strong: a set jaw, defined nose, dark eyes. Close-trimmed dark mutton chops stretch from my mostly buzz-cut head, a black-and-white striped mohawk carving a wide channel down my scalp. All-in-all pretty similar to my real face. I gently pull off the polo shirt, being extra careful that it doesn’t disrupt my mask. The trainers and shorts are off next, full body on display and it is a treat. Everything in perfect proportion. Arms and shoulder and pecs like bosh! Thigs and calves and ass like bosh! No hair aside from a perfectly manicured dark trail from below my navel to my dick. I put my clothes and shoes in my bag, taking out the only other thing I’ll be wearing tonight: my zebra-striped jockstrap. Gingerly I slide it on, trying not to jostle too many other people with my huge body. I always get some looks as I fit everything inside and that always thrills me a little bit. Good thing they’re looking at the front so they don’t notice me adjusting for the invisible tail in the back.

The other performers I don’t mind seeing my junk, it comes with the territory, but just about everyone else who gets to see I usually have to mindwipe. I try not to double-dip but what can I say? Humans are such… accommodating lovers and I have a healthy appetite. It’s more of a precaution: we can’t have the humans finding out about us yet, and I’m sure I’m breaking the rules enough as it is, but where would be the thrill in always playing safe? I take a step back (as best I can) so I can get a full view in the mirror. Flexing, stretching, checking every inch. I should edit the skin a bit, get it tanner, like I’ve just come off a week in Spain.

“Mr. Hunter? You’re on in ten,” says a skinny little wisp of a stagehand, gripping his clipboard as his gaze drifts from my eyes to far below.

“Thanks cutie,” I reply with a wink and a smile. “Could you do me a huge favour and take this to the cloakroom?” I hold out my bag. His eyes snap back up to mine and he blushes, taking my bag and scurrying away. Love it. Anyway, the projection is fine, body flawless (but of course it is, it’s mine). Only thing I need to focus on now is being the guy that everyone wants to take home. Easy enough. I am Hunter. Zebras might be prey animals, but this is my savannah and I’m the predator here. Wait… not like that. Well not… gah, I’m overthinking. I make my way over to the wings of the main stage, nothing but glow-in-the-dark markings to guide my path in the pitch. Deep breath, clench and release my hands, a few short bounces on the balls of my feet to make sure the blood is moving, a quick grasp of the package to get that blood to give me a little more oomph in the show. The bass of the previous dancer’s song is shaking the floor, sounds like it’s stressing the woofers. I let it flow through me, my heartbeat joins the tempo.

“Welcome to the main stage one of Stallion’s favourites: HUNTER!” The lights flash as I move to make my appearance, the bass joined by drums, synths, nonsense non-lyrics. First pose, arms wide with my hands behind my head. Chest on display while I weave the spell. It’s super basic, doesn’t require much more than a thought, but it really allows me to dazzle on the drop. I roll my abs, my hips bucking forward, 3, 2, 1 and go. A small burst of lightning bursts from behind my head, disguised by the backlights behind me on the stage wall, and fizzles out into the room. Very basic magic but it gets the people tingling and that’s the point. I strut up the stage, caressing my thighs, my chest, giving a playful thrust at any particularly generous-looking patrons.

The music takes over. I just move, letting it take me where it wants to go so long as where it wants is near the giving hands of the crowd. It gets sketchy when they get a bit bold and start trying to pull things off, but I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself, strong like an ox. Well not really an Ox, I could never beat Joe in arm wrestling, but I’d bet on myself any day against humans. That’s a name I haven’t thought about in a long time…. I shake him from my head.

Now my least favourite move, the one I’m always sure will snap my jock and somehow and break my disguise wholesale: wide split. Slowly, slowly, still on beat… and only slightly ball-crushing this time, so a good set I’d say with that. Never does my face show any of the internal panic, I can’t afford it to. Now for the second part of my least favourite: getting back up. I always do a breakdance backspin and every time I’m worried someone is going to be too close and get kicked in the head. I might not have hooves anymore per se, but that “toe” is still a formidable weapon. Geronimo! Spin, kip-up, and landed. Flawless, now look over the shoulder, walk away. One last flash of electricity with my final pose, and the crowd is wild as I walk off the stage. Well done lad, another success.

A showcase to whet the appetite, now to let them feast. Well… nibble. I make my way from the wings across the main floor and to one of the side stages, a small crowd already gathered at the altar. They touch, and I let them. Hands on my legs, my thighs. I gyrate, dipping low to give them access, and they touch my chest, my arms, my abs. The pinch of fingers slipping pound notes into the straps of my jock. They squeeze on the pouch (slightly painful in my balls). A firm grab of my ass. Loathe as I am to reward that, I grab his face and press it to my crotch, thrusting gently a few times before releasing him and walking away further up the stage. Can’t let them accidentally find my tail.

Thoughts of Ricky flash in my mind, him naked in the doorway, and my blood rushes as I continue to dance. How happy he and Benji make me both. Then the door is closed, the sounds from the other side, and my blood falters where it shouldn’t. And then I think of Joe, and my blood freezes. No! I won’t allow this, he doesn’t get to live in my head anymore. That feeling like I’ve missed something returns, my head starting to cloud with doubts. I need a distraction. The main stage is lighting up for the next show, most of the patrons moving over to see the next hot thing, and that’s fine. I make my exit from the side stage and head over to the bar area. Looks like the night has been good so far given the £10 and £20 notes I’m already seeing (plus a couple 50s, but it’s early and the real big spenders won’t show up until the alcohol has been swimming in them for a little while longer). The bar itself is empty, everyone watching the main stage, save one: cute boy, can’t be much more than 25, chestnut hair in a pushed back ‘do. No money that he’s been spending (on the dancers at least) so maybe he’s just here for the drinks (there’s an empty glass in front of him) or he’s out with friends. That’s fine. As distractions go I could do worse. I sidle up next to the lad, leaning playfully against the bar top as the bartender walks over, tossing a towel over his shoulder.

“G&T?” he asks. He knows me so well. The cute lad is looking at the crowd by the stage. Deftly I pull the wads of cash from my jock and stack them together, tucking them out of sight behind the bar.

“Hey there handsome, how’ve you been enjoying the show?” He’s slow to turn, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to be talking to him, but then he sees me and his face is immediately red, full bright. It’s amazing the thoughts someone with a body like mine can flood the brain with. “What are you drinking? Can I buy you another?”

“I… uh… hi! Erm… yeah, that—that’d be great.” So cute when they’re nervous.

“And a refill for the gentleman.” The bartender nods, already mixing both drinks. Maybe he knows me too well. I laugh a little to myself. “So is this your first time here? What brings you out tonight?”

“Ah! Erm… well it’s my mate’s stag do; it was his idea. Not really my sorta place…. Not that I don’t like it! Just… erm, I’m feeling a bit… out of the joke.” There’s a small group of lads crowded at the main stage a little more raucous than the rest, that must be them. The bartender sets our drinks down and the lad grasps at his nervously.

“I’m not one to judge,” I say taking a sip of my drink. True, mostly. “I just work here. Sorry if I’m making you feel nervous.” A flagrant lie.

“Y-you’re not,” he says taking a long sip of his drink. Guess we’re matched for verity at least. I chuckle darkly. His face is already flushed so if I’m going to make a move in good conscious it’s going to need to be soon. “Sorry just… guys that look like you… don’t usually talk to me.”

“Well that’s good for me, ‘cause guys like you are just my type,” I say with a laugh, running my hand past his ear and to the back of his neck, sparks in my fingertips. I can see the ripples of electricity travel down his spine, feel the rise of heat from his body. I lean in close, mouth right next to his ear. “So what do you want to do?” Gooseflesh rises along his neck, the prickles of tiny hairs standing on end as he subconsciously leans into my voice. His breath hitches in his chest, and if I’m as clever as I think I am, once his eyes finish rolling, just behind me he should see….

A wave of light shines from the main stage behind him, crowd going wild as the music thrums. He grabs my hand and pulls me away in the opposite direction, to the toilets. It’s empty: nothing but a dim red glow and the scent of piss and beer, bass bumping through the walls. Last stall, he leads me inside. I can barely get the door closed behind me with his hands all over my body, grasping at my chest, caressing my abs, daring himself to go lower. He plants his face in my pecs, breathing me in up to my neck as I try and turn my face away (the light is low and he is in vino veritas, but even still I don’t know exactly how kissing will track mentally through the disguise). He contents himself with nibbling at my neck instead, thumbs bothering at my nipples as he exhales hotly against my skin.

He hasn’t made any indication that he’s noticed the feel of fur, hopefully it stays that way. He seems in his element at least, hungry to explore, and of course I didn’t think far enough ahead to think that that might become an actual problem. I just wanted to get rid of this gnawing feeling in my head. He kneels down, bringing his face even with my crotch, eyeing the fabric stretched taut.

“Careful lad, slow down, that might be too much for you,” I whisper to him over the vibration of the music, but he’s lost in lust and seems to take it as a dare, burying his face in my laden lap. He sniffs at the pouch of my jock, breath hot and stimulating as the pressure builds almost painfully. He pulls the fabric to the side, dick springing to attention and balls shifting lower now that everything has space to move and breathe. Already I’m half as big as his arm and it’s only getting stiffer. His face is a mix of panic and desire. With a tentative touch he takes my balls into one hand and gives them a gentle squeeze, his other hand following his tongue up the straightening shaft. He takes in the head, hollowing his cheeks as he does his best to fit as much of me into his mouth as he can (and he does a surprisingly good job of it, I’m clearly not his first). Experience seems to be guiding him as he slicks his hand with his spit while his tongue teases the tip of my cock, tracing the ridge of the head and gliding his palm along the underside.

I lean my head back, a breath escaping my lips as my chest and abs shudder slightly, back pressed against the stall door. He moves his hands to the hem of his shirt, lifting it over and behind his head to expose his torso. He’s got a good body: lean, like a swimmer, and a dark wisp of hair blossoming from just below his navel and vanishing into the waistline of his jeans, which he unbuttons. He places one hand my outer thigh, looking hungrily at the feast in front of him while he plunges the other into his pants, familiar motions following. He looks simultaneously so innocent and sinful; it makes me throb. He noses at my sack, inhaling my musk and licking my balls as they shift from the heat and pressure and stimulation. My dick quivers slightly as it brushes against his cheek, gently scratching against his stubble.

He reaches up both hands, gripping around the shaft as he massages it slowly, feeling the muscle resist against him. I reach down, brushing my fingers through his soft brown hair to the back of his head, gripping into it. He gives a small gasp, barely audible, but doesn’t seem to mind. I direct his face upwards and he obliges, tongue sliding up from the base of my dick to the tip before he wraps his lips around, swallowing the head. I lean back, eyes closed, and gently pushing his face closer. I hear a bit of a strained sound as I hit the back of his throat, can feel his nostrils flare as he takes in oxygen, but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t resist. With no further direction he moves on his own, swallowing as much as he can and releasing it before repeating. A slow rhythm at first but then he picks up speed. I release his hair, moving my hands up my abs and to my pecs, squeezing at my nipples. A good pain. I can feel the tingle of residual electricity as it dances on my skin, my muscles. My hips shudder, rolling into the young man’s head, bucking slightly but he takes it. He moans with his mouth full, I respond in kind: low, guttural, almost a growl. He releases my cock, panting, I can hear in his breath I need, I need.

He rises, joining his hands with mine, squeezing with me, massaging me. He runs his fingers up my arms, my biceps twitching at his touch, my shoulders flexing, my neck tightening… shit! My eyes dart open, panic. He cups my face in his hands and leans in to kiss me, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar. I resist against it enough to try and make it less obvious that my mouth is actually much further forward than it appears, but not so much that it feels like I’m pulling away. His lips meet mine roughly, briefly, the barest touch of his tongue on me before I can duck away. He’s surprised, maybe a little confused, but that seems to dissolve away once he feels my breath against the fabric of his boxers.

I follow the ebony trail as it disappears behind dark blue fabric strained against the tension of the rod behind. I put my hands on his hips, feeling the heat of his skin beneath my palms, and slide my thumbs beneath the elastic, pulling the denim and cotton prison away enough to give me access to what I need. The trail ends at the base of his cock, neatly trimmed with the barest dusting of hair on his balls and the upper part of his legs. His member is thin, stiff, a rigid vein wrapping its way from the base to where it widens and then tapers to a tip, a clear sticky drip just beginning to succumb to gravity’s pull. I reach out with my tongue. It’s sweet and bitter, a paradox not unlike my attraction and fear of humans. With my left thumb and forefinger I gently grab his dick, sliding the foreskin back slightly as I trace the globe of the head with my tongue. I feel his body shudder. I reach up with my right hand and press against the soft spot just below where the ribs join with my palm, moving my fingers slightly back and forth to tantalise his nipples with a gentle electricity.

Two conflicting thoughts are racing through my mind, and the one taking dominance is that I need to finish this quickly. Already a close call in getting outed by this lad, and even if the night is still young I don’t know if I can go through with any more tonight. None of this was a good idea. Why did I think it was? My nostrils flare as I take a deep breath, sliding the whole of his cock into my mouth. There’s a perverse pleasure to be had from being able to seemingly deep-throat so easily. I move my left hand to grab his balls, shifting against the heat from my hand. I give them a gentle squeeze, massaging the area just behind his sack with my knuckle. He’s practically trembling, breath coming in short clips. It probably won’t take much more. I rub my tongue along the length of his shaft as I pull my head back and push forward again. With a thought I send subtle waves of electricity through my hands. I feel his abs clench, his dick throb in my mouth.

“Ah shit… ah god…,” he breathes. I pick up the pace slightly, bracing my palate mentally for what’s to come. It doesn’t take long. His breath shudders and hitches, I feel his whole body clench, his cock pressing against the roof of my mouth as it throbs and releases burst after burst of sweet and bitter sticky substance. I inhale deeply through my nose, swallowing down the liquid as he relaxes slightly. I exhale as his length slides from my mouth, almost a sigh. I look up but his eyes are closed, head tilted back, blissed out. Quickly I touch near the bridge of my nose, feigning an itch with which I check to make sure my mask is still on (yes, still there, no disguise broken, no being outed today). I straighten my legs, dwarfing the lad with my height, and as fun as this distraction has been, I need to get out of here.

“Thanks handsome,” I say with a wink and a smile, but he doesn’t see that. With no small amount of difficulty, I quickly wrestle my manhood back into my jock as best I can before attempting to open the stall door, leaving the lad in his post-orgasmic stupor. The room is still empty (thankfully). I briefly check my reflection as I make my way back to the main room. Nothing looks amiss. The music is still loud, bass thrumming through the floor, lights trailing their patterns on the walls and across the people as they dance and laugh and have a grand time. A brief snort is all I can manage, walking back towards the empty bar area (the crowd must be at the lounge bar instead of the stage one) to retrieve the tips I stashed away before sneaking through a door to the backstage area. The dressing room is still just as crowded as it was when I arrived and I struggle to weave my way through back to the vanity I used before when I changed only to remember upon seeing the locker near it with nothing that looks like mine in it that I had put my clothes in my bag and gave it to the stagehand to put in the cloakroom. Shit. Well I guess that’s just where my brain is now. My shoulders slump as I stretch my neck up, my head back in an exasperated inhalation before pivoting and worming back through the room and out, into the cloakroom. I find my bag, grabbing out my shorts and shirt and slipping them on.

“Leaving already?” asks the girl in charge of the cloakroom tonight. She’s a strong brunette, fan of the biker aesthetic. We chat sometimes about the latest episodes of Poirot if the night is going slowly.

“Yeah, not feeling great so I think I’m just gonna go home and go to bed,” I say, feigning pathetic as best I can. She knows I’m lying but I don’t really care. I just need to not be here right now.

“Alright, I’ll let bossman know. Hope you feel better.” She moves away towards the window to help one of the club patrons with something. Not sure how I feel about how easy that was, but honestly I’m glad for the lack of complication. I slip my trainers on, snapback low over my face, and I sneak out the door and past the line of people waiting to get into the club. I walk opposite from the main road, further down the alley. It’s dark, blessedly empty. I grab my phone from my bag. A little after midnight. A missed call from an hour ago. A text from the same number, Benji’s number, that’s just the hugging face emoji. Yeah, home actually sounds like the best place right now.

I exit the alley onto the next street, lights from a closing coffee shop glaring off my phone screen before I slip it back into my pocket. The sounds of Soho echo around me as I make my way around the block and towards the river, crossing back behind the line to get into Stallion. Just a few minutes’ walk down Wardour, across Leicester Square, past Trafalgar and Charing Cross. A splash of green of the Embankment Gardens means I’m home. I walk into the building through the residents’ door. The harsh lights are too bright against the white floor. I duck into the lift, up to the top floor, last door in the hall. The key finds the lock effortlessly and the door gives way to inviting darkness within. I close the door softly behind me, bolting it before daring to breathe. I take off my hat and nod my head against the door, coldness of the wood against my forehead as I close my eyes and just breathe. There’s a sound of movement behind me but I don’t react to it because I know who it is already.

“Hey Ori, you’re home early.” The same slight southern American accent, almost the same words, even. They look almost exactly the same but they are two very different men. Where Ricky is more impulsive and brash, Benji is more methodical and soft. Both of them are wonderful, letting me explore different parts of myself with them. A long shadow washes over me, Benji’s silhouette cast from the light of the TV across the room. It shortens, blurs, as he gets closer to me, and then I feel his arms as they wrap around my torso, long fingers squeezing at my sides, his face pressed into my back. I take a deep breath, it shudders slightly on the way in. After a moment he releases me and I gingerly turn around. I look down at his face, soft, emerald eyes (Hyperion eyes, the only real difference from his brother) shining above an elongated face curled up into a sleepy smile. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa because he’s wearing his dark grey pyjama bottoms, coppery skin of his bare upper body shining slightly in the backlight of some documentary that he must have been “watching”.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” I say, smiling back. There’s a dull pain in my heart and I don’t know why.

“I know… but I wanted to.” He reaches up to my face, hands finding their way through the disguise to my eyes, fingers tracing the edges of the invisible mask before he pulls it from my face. The last visage of “Hunter” dissolves away in cerulean sparks, leaving only myself behind. “There you are.” He leans up to kiss me but I turn my head slightly, his lips pressing into my cheek.

“I should get a shower and brush my teeth before we do any of that,” I say with a soft chuckle. Need to get the stink of horny humans and spunk off my body. Benji is too gentle to smell so rough.

He says, “Okay babe,” lingering for a moment, reading my face for something that he apparently doesn’t find. He walks back to the sofa on the other side of the room, pulling a blanket that had been strewn across the back of it around his shoulders as he sinks into the cushions. I move off to the left, through the kitchen area and to my bedroom. I leave the door open and the lights off as I shrug my bag to the floor, toeing off my trainers and following the dim light from the connected bathroom in. A large garden tub is off to my right, and on the wall the handles for the water. I turn them on hot, switching the output to the shower and drawing the curtain closed in the soft amber light that’s mounted under the cabinets to show the floor at night, forsaking the overhead lights. There’s a basket in the corner and I peel off my clothes, tossing them inside. I look at my reflection in the mirror on the wall, stretching, flexing. Perfection in physical form but.... Steam begins to obscure the mirror. I turn around and climb in the tub, scalding water burning away the night. And when it is done I grab one of the soft white towels from the rack, turning off the water and drying my feet before stepping out onto the tile.

I wrap the towel around my waist, grabbing my toothbrush from the cup on the counter and scrubbing it over my teeth, rinsing with turquoise mouthwash that burns away the lingering aftertaste of bad decisions in a bar toilet stall. I check my reflection, now clean, combing my fingers through my deflated mohawk, smoothing my sideburns, violet eyes shining in the dark. I remove the towel from my waist as I walk out of the bathroom, finishing drying as I approach the walnut dresser that stretches long against the near wall, a pair of loose boxers with leaf patterns pulled from the bottom drawer. I slide them on, tail hanging out a thick cord from the top of the back. I toss the towel back into the bathroom as I exit the bedroom and back into the living room.

Benji isn’t in the room anymore, but the nature documentary still shines its light across the room. Theres a click of the electric kettle turning off on the kitchen island, two mugs set next to it. There’s the smallest churn, a slight flutter in my abdomen. I grab the box of teabags from the cupboard over the sink, a mix of different flavours. Benji likes herbal so I grab one of the chamomile sachets for him, ginger for myself hoping it’ll help settle my stomach down. I drop the bags in the mugs, pouring the boiling water over, staring at the steam as it winds its way up, dancing in the dim pendant light above the island. From somewhere in the distance I can hear the muted sounds of saxophone and clarinet and piano. I close my eyes and take a breath in, holding it, wishing I knew what this feeling I have was, why I can’t seem to shake it off. I release the breath, picking up the mugs and walking over to the sofa, setting Benji’s down on the side table next to where he’d been sitting. I hold mine as I take a seat, warmth in my hands almost painful, enough to help sharpen my mind a bit as I watch some weird bird do an even weirder dance, trying to court a mate. He’s not succeeding.

The music gets a little louder and Benji reappears from down the hallway that leads to the other rooms. Silently he slinks back onto the sofa, stretching his torso up so his head is resting in my lap, looking up at me. This goofball. I smile down at him. He reaches up, running his hand along my shoulder, my bicep, smiling, but it’s not reaching his eyes; quite the opposite, they look… sad. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, like he’s trying to draw up every bit of energy he can, and I can just feel the pit of my stomach drop.

He says, “We… need to talk.” And that’s why I’d been feeling off, my subconscious could tell something bad was coming. I nod slowly, carefully setting my tea down on the side table. He looks like he’s about to cry and no matter what he’s about to say I don’t want that. I cross my arms over his chest, squeezing him against my body.

“Hey, it’s okay,” and it’s taking every ounce of strength I have to not spiral. He doesn’t say anything more, so neither do I. The music from the hallway drones on, lights dancing around the room in a sombre mockery of where I left just a short while ago.

“I… we….” He’s struggling, but I don’t know what to do to help. He takes another breath, blinking away moisture. It shudders wetly on the way in, fits and starts in his chest as it rises under my arms. “I’m being recalled. Back to Virginia. I… we….” So he’s leaving, back to the States. I guess we thought (knew) that this would happen eventually. His eyes are wet, and I wish there was something I could say to help but every part of me is trying to not unwind right here with him. So I don’t say anything. Instead I adjust my legs, tucking them on either side of his torso, pulling him up into my body so I can get a better grip on my little spoon, resting my chin on his shoulder. The sounds of choked-back sobs echo in my ears. Eventually I find the strength to ask what’s on my mind.

“How long do we have?” His breathing is sporadic, sopping. “Hey, hey now.” I kiss into his neck. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I found out on the flight back today. I debrief with London tomorrow, then me and Ricky are flying back to DC on Monday before going… h-home….” I squeeze the Armadillo tightly into me. His brother would leave with a blowjob and a wave, a casual ‘see y’all ‘round’, but Benji can’t do that. He will have gotten wholly emotionally invested. And me? I… I wasn’t supposed to but I guess somewhere I did. It wasn’t supposed to… this was only ever meant to be a… well… whatever it was meant to be, it still hurts. The bird on the TV is standing alone in a forest clearing, crying its song, no mate to be found this day. But he’ll try again tomorrow, and the day after, until he finds the one. Smile when it hurts, right? And right now I look like I’m at a goddamn amusement park, even if it’s only on the outside. I exhale, squeezing tighter. Help Benji now. After he’s gone… then I’ll help myself.