After supper, Zephyr settled into his old brown easy chair and turned on the TV. Reg stretched out on the couch, his head propped up on a pillow against one arm and his legs draped over the other arm. He looked comfortable in just a tee shirt and his work pants. 3 jumped up on top of him and curled up on his chest, and Reg stroked her absently while staring at nothing in particular. Zephyr found a movie he'd always wanted to watch, but after a while he lost interest and looked at Reg instead.
He found his eyes drawn to Reg's bare feet, which hung casually off the other side of the couch just within Zephyr's line of sight. Other people's feet always fascinated Zephyr, in that freak-show curious way. And although he'd seen Reg's feet more than anyone's, even his own, they had the same effect. They were so bizarrely long and slim, pale and perfect; the tendons clearly visible and toenails carefully rounded on toes like a pianist's fingers. Zephyr grinned to himself as he entertained the idea that he might have a foot fetish; he could appreciate the irony of that. But he knew that was unlikely; it was simply a case of limited exposure to views of other people's feet. He had a similar reaction to his own feet, but for a different reason. Just the knowledge that he was a freak prevented him from ever getting used to their appearance.
When he was eleven or so, he went through a barefoot phase just to piss off his mother. And it worked, when she was home and sober enough to notice – except when she brought home a new boyfriend, in which case Zephyr tended to lose his nerve and hide. When he was home alone, which was most of the time, he tried to condition himself to be comfortable that way. But he had to stop because, to be honest, his feet were poorly designed for such use.
That thought amused him. He was such an engineer.
Reg, on the other hand, was very well designed. Those feet could walk miles without a problem, and Zephyr had seen him do it. He knew that stride that made walking a well-paced routine, measured and untiring like a machine. Lean, solid muscle gave him sleek, efficient contours; nothing wasted, nothing extra. Every motion Reg made had strength and purpose, from the complex back-and-forth swish of sketching to the confident heave of heavy lifting. Even now, the repetitive stroking of his right hand along 3's back remained exact and efficient, moving just enough to complete its purpose fully.
It looked very... oooh. Mmm. Zephyr ignored the television and watched Reg. Maybe later he could do more than just watch, but for now, this was nice. Very nice.
****
Reg lay draped on the couch and absorbed the double rhythm 3 produced, purr and heart, and moved his hand along her back like she liked. And he thought some thoughts. He thought about Antony and he thought about sleep. He wanted to sleep and he didn't want to sleep. The last few times he'd gone to sleep, he'd wanted to visit Antony in the gilded cave. The path was easy again, after so many years. But the way was dangerous. Many dangers lay in wait, and though he tried to avoid, they knew how to reach him and they reached out and grabbed him.
The last few times he'd gone to sleep, he' been grabbed.
So he didn't want to sleep; not if he'd be grabbed and held down and made to relive those things he feared. He hated, and he feared his own hate. He only wanted Antony. He wanted Antony to protect him and keep him safe, like Antony used to do when Antony was real. But Antony had never been able to keep him safe; the dangers still came and grabbed him, pulled him down and away, pulled Antony away too. The dangers took Antony away. Reg couldn't save him and he couldn't save himself. The dangers were invisible; he could never see them coming. The dangers were clever; they came in disguise.
Reg wanted to build a sculpture that resembled the gilded cave. A dark cave of sheet metal, welded in copper and gold and draped with dark green coarse cotton bedsheets, deep and dark and cool and quiet. He would create giant chimes of cast iron pipe that dangled dangerously from the ceiling, chimes that didn't chime. He would coat them in thick black wax and they would thud dully against each other when he moved through; damage and scar each other with each dull touch. He would build channels to pull the air he moved when he walked among the chimes, magnify its movement and use the currents to force the chimes to damage each other in the wind. To keep them still, he would have to move slowly, quietly, keep as still as he could. He would name it Antony's sculpture and he would go to this dangerous quiet place when he needed to remember the cool darkness of those times.
Those times had ended. The dangers had died, but his mind forgot that and brought them back to life. They were dead. He was safe. Zephyr kept him safe. Zephyr did that; stayed nearby and fended off new dangers and let Reg be free and unafraid and kept things safe.
But Zephyr was afraid. If Zephyr was afraid, it meant Zephyr saw dangers. Reg struggled to recognize the dangers, but again they were invisible to him. He couldn't see them, and Zephyr could and was afraid, and Reg knew they would blindside him and he wouldn't see them coming and they'd come in disguise. Then life would fall apart, like it had before. He and Zephyr would have to move away from the house and into a new place; the job would go away and the world would fall apart and Zephyr would be afraid all the time, like he had when it happened before.
Reg knew whenever he touched Zephyr and listened to Zephyr's heart: Zephyr was afraid.
Zephyr is always afraid.
But Zephyr was more afraid than that now. Zephyr was afraid; he could hear it in his heartbeat. Zephyr could see dangers.
We don't know that. Maybe there are no dangers. Zephyr is always afraid, but he protects us. Trust Zephyr.
He trusted Zephyr. Zephyr couldn't fend off all the dangers, but he could protect them from many of them. He trusted Zephyr. But he wanted to hide in the gilded cave and remember Antony. He wanted to retreat there sometimes – just sometimes – and remember and be safe. But the dangers his mind refused to let die became increasingly aware and awaited him each time. Zephyr couldn't protect him from them.
He didn't want to sleep. But he wanted to sleep; he wanted the dark warm quiet cave that gave him rest and wrapped him safe away from the confusions and stresses of the invisible things he could never understand.
Then he felt himself grabbed and held down and pulled painfully down and away, and he screamed and they pulled with frightening force and he screamed and screamed as if he could scream them off him... but that had never succeeded before. But he tried; he had to try; he fought back with noise that he built up into a deadly spiral.
He felt hands on him, gentle Zephyr warm safe hands guiding him up into the safe quiet. He opened his eyes and Zephyr touched him and touched him and held him and spoke. Zephyr was afraid. He knew it now; Zephyr was afraid; Zephyr had seen the dangers and had pushed them away. Zephyr spoke and Reginald remembered to listen.
Zephyr said, "It's all right. Just a nightmare. You're all right."
3 was gone, but Reg absorbed Zephyr's heartbeat, though it hurt him so uneven; he took it and held it and molded it into himself. Zephyr's heartbeat said he was afraid, and Reg knew that he was blind to the dangers Zephyr feared.
Trust Zephyr. Just a nightmare. Trust Zephyr.
Not dangers. Just change.