[Flashback] You're in My Head (Syllke)

[Mara]

Mara tossed his neck, a tug of his chops peeping from underneath his arched dome. "Have you no shame Syllke?" he advanced with a revisit to his undiluted disposition and melted into the divergent legroom of his company. He filched the Vantha's hands into his own and appraised them. "It looks rather serious." he remarked cynically. "...nearly incapable of movement." lips pressed gently to the scuffed flesh of his inflaming knuckles before climbing to engulf his plump lips in a brash kiss of his own inclination. A reawakened zeal lit between their thrashing smacker and his digits yanked his damped clothes toward his waterless frame. He strained away all too speedily, eyes still fastened and rims parted in an excavated sigh and a meager strand of saliva strung between them before it collapsed and vanished. He drew his lip between his whetted teeth and nip down firmly.

He pulled away, with no succeeding glances, and fell back to the worktop, his voice rose the question "Do you think you can muster through the pain now?" he displayed his back toward him. "I need to gather my supplies to clean your abrasions, and I expect you cared for you last injuries."

From the junctions of the flat surface he dragged the container of transparent fluid toward him along with lesser tufts of cloth. The anxiety from watching the boy’s tiff fizzed inside him reintroduced but slackened. "By the way." he knew he would damper the mood, which both relieved him and dissatisfied him in the same. "I don't really care what your spat was about-" he knew very well what it was about, he had seen it, and was not insulted, but dismayed by the actions that broke out in consequence. "But I hope you don't make it a habit of fighting over the smallest of issues. I'm sure they were your friends." he sauntered around and gripped the tabletop, examining the other’s expression with little break before unending. "Don't burn all your bridges, one day you'll need somewhere to cross."

The rational behind his argument was in sake of the harshest outcomes. At this time and this moment he saw no reason for there to be a motive for them to part, but if being together incited animosity, or sectioned him from other’s solely of his own accord. He did not want that, he did not want him to be dealt with contempt or feel alone if Mara was plagued by his own tribulations and behaved maliciously.

Mara did not want to see Syllke forsake his friends, it was his original reason that had hatched all of this, but now there could be no doubt that it was with different motivations. “Whatever it was-” he paused and finally connected their sights again. “Forget it, and move on.”

With his approach he readied himself for the possibilities of his reactions, a dispute or long-suffering pout. He fondled his face with the rag while quietly listening. He stroked the cuts about his cheek and lip, and then tossed the used rag to the corner, content there was nothing much more to worry over. The incisions were clotted and dried and now carefully purified of budding infection. He wanted to retell him to clean it just as he had before, but their current conversation prevented him. Instead he focused on the monologue.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke tried not to grin quite so broadly at Mara’s question/mocking reproach, and as the healer came to him, the artist shook his head in the negative. “Well, no, not if it gets you to come closer.” The look on Mara’s face was something similar to an eye-roll, but he played along, examining Syllke’s hands and making his little sarcastic comment. The unexpected, swift brush of Mara’s lips over his knuckles was enough to freeze the grin on Syllke’s face, as once again such a simple touch seemed to light his skin on fire. And right on the heels of that soft sweep of the back of his fingers, Mara’s lips came to press against Syllke’s, further immobilizing his all too frequently flippant mouth. The way Mara bit his lip accompanied by that look he gave Syllke as he backed away was almost the younger boy’s undoing. Syllke wanted nothing more than to be the one biting on that soft lip, and to feel those white teeth pressing into his own flesh. But as always, Mara seemingly mystical ability to bring Syllke’s brain to a crashing halt kept the young artist transfixed and allowed the healer time to slip back to the safe harbor of his counter. With back turned, he began his preparations for whatever it was he thought was necessary for tending to the slight reminders of the fight. At the same time, he began to lecture Syllke about the whole affair – at least, that’s how Syllke took it. While Mara talked in a mature and philosophical way about what Syllke should, or should not do, Syllke was only half listening. He took the opportunity to strip off his soaking clothing quickly and managed to get the dry trousers pulled on by the time Mara turned back around. He had just been reaching for the shirt, and pulled that on too, so that by the time Mara was once more in front of him, he was dressed. As the healer began to dab at his face with the cloth, Syllke replied to Mara’s arguments in a way that seemed most logical to his somewhat unorthodox brain. “Well, you know . . . there are just some things you can’t walk away from. It was just one of those things.” He shrugged his shoulders diffidently. “It wasn’t a big deal. Don’t worry about it. They aren’t really my friends – just some guys I know.” Syllke was unaware that Mara knew what had precipitated the fight, and the young artist had no intention of ever mentioning that. Why tell Mara what two minging c*nts thought of him, when they were obviously such tw*ts? At least now those three would know not to say anything like that around Syllke again. And if he found out they were saying the same types of things elsewhere, well . . . he’d make sure that stopped too. The possibility of things escalating beyond just this one isolated fight didn’t really occur to Syllke, not yet. But if it came to that, he’d poke anyone who tried to say ugly things about Mara. He wasn’t afraid of fists. Of course, in Syllke’s simplistic view, if people were smacked when they opened their gobs too much, that would take care of the problem. He wasn’t thinking about how the sentiments would remain, regardless of how many punches he threw. Coming from a totally different place than Mara, he really couldn’t conceptualize the depth of the half-blood's personal little hell. He shrugged again. “It’s forgotten.” Mara had finished with what little there was to do, and his skilled hands had stopped their deft little swipes over Syllke’s face and knuckles. Syllke reached for the other boy’s hand and held it up just a bit, as he looked down at the hard, back nails. His eyes then lifted to Mara’s. “I’m lucky, to have my own personal healer who can run after me and patch me up, with such skilled hands.” Mimicking Mara’s gesture, Syllke raised Mara’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of each finger softly. “But I’ll remember – not to take advantage of your time.” He smiled warmly. “Besides, I can think of much better ways to spend it with you.” His other hand went to Mara’s neck and cheek and he tugged gently, as he leaned closer himself, to the healer tempting lips, hoping that Mara wasn’t going to toss him out into the storm now that his healing services were complete.

[Mara]

Mara desired to protest his passive solutions, to contend there was no justification for him to find a skirmish necessary, even on his own behalf, especially on his own behalf. Instead he found something there in his simplistic explanation. They were just poles apart. Syllke was doing what he deemed best, he was attempting to shelter Mara from suffering. It was an impractical feat, but poignant even so. So instead of raising his voice or growing irate he remained mute, and soothed with his concluding declaration, that it was disregarded. He hoped it was the reality.

His concentration was in another station when his hand was hoisted, but he promptly returned at the sensation of mellow lips upon the reverse of his hand, contrasted by the gentle palms cradling them. He was a bit caught off guard, his eyes broadened a touch and lips divided a shavings length. The tidings were not what he expected and they left him speechless and fixed, until hands were wrapped about his neck and face and guided him the other.

It was too immense an invitation. Only a murmur could escape his pliable existence while finding his eyes cemented to the sultry mouth waiting to be ravished "Syllke..." his heart stuttered at the roll of letters seeping from his tongue, and he could resist no longer.

With hardly any effort they united, openings pinned down together and molding seamlessly between one another. The kiss was unhurried, less critical, but just as tempestuous, like waves violently crashing upon the seawall during a storm. There was without a doubt a hurricane creating vortexes inside of Mara. His mind was a flummoxed mesh of unrelated thoughts and one visual remained steadied throughout, the gentle Vantha, the body of his longing. His teeth nipped at his lip and dragged it back with a light suck. Arms cleaved to him and traveled around the contours of his back and margins in deliberate and even caresses.

He parted from him with a winded inhalation, warmth rising in his cheeks. He rested his head in the crook of the other's boy shoulder, only now noticing he had extended some in the short time they had been apart. It was such an insignificant amount, but it made it obligatory to stretch a minute length higher to kiss the nook of delicate flesh behind his ear. His hand bound around his neck and he laced his fingers into Syllke's hair and began to stream a line of feathery kisses down his neck one after the other tugging the skin between his teeth sporadically.

He desired him in a way he had not felt for someone up to that time. The emotion was so passionate he was terrified of it. He withdrew from it repeatedly. He was not someone easily disturbed, especially not by the human anatomy, but every inch of him, seemed alluring and thrilling. His blood ran hot at the very thought of it.

Mara's head reposed upon his shoulder once more, a breathy request collapsed at no more than a whisper "I don't mind. If it’s you, take full advantage of my time, Syllke...please."

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke could not say that he minded listening when Mara spoke. Everything about the healer seemed fascinating to the artist. But he was glad that this time, as he pulled Mara closer, the healer said nothing except Syllke’s own name. The young Vantha didn’t think he would ever tire of hearing that falling from Mara’s lips. And so it was with a smile that he greeted those often eloquent but now quiescent soft pink petals that, at that moment, was almost the entire focus of Syllke’s desire. Almost. As Mara’s silk encased arms slipped around Syllke’s back, so too did Syllke’s hands caress that neck and then slide downwards to the curve of Mara’s shoulders and then under his arms to encircle that thin, willowy waist. With the knowledge that all that lay between his fingers and palms and Mara’s skin was that sheer layer of satiny material, Syllke’s mind was racing and his body was responding in a predictable and wonderfully maddening way. His hands pulled Mara close, the length of their bodies pressed together so that nothing of more width than that piece of silk could have been fit between them. Mara's even, white teeth nipped at Syllke’s lips and the boy groaned reactively, mimicking the gesture, not embarrassed to think that Mara might find it humorous that Syllke was being such a copy cat. But it was partly this thought that kept Syllke from going any further, though he would have done so gladly. He was, after all, unsure – inexperienced – and he had no idea that Mara was no less so. So he looked for Mara to take the lead, and followed it avidly, as far as it would take them. Too soon, Mara pulled his lips from Syllke’s and tucked his head adorably against Syllke’s neck. Syllke’s hands went upwards, stroking Mara’s back through the robe, and he pressed his cheek to the still very wet hair. Mara’s next lesson literally made Syllke gasp – a hiss of pleasure at the feel of those butterfly kisses all down his neck. Syllke’s fingertips perssed more deeply into Mara’s back as he sought an anchor, lest he totally lose control and take things farther and faster than seemed appropriate. He might not know exactly what he was doing, but he sure as hell would have kept on until he figured it all out. But he held back, and the sweet agony of doing that increased the intensity of what Mara’s lips were doing a thousand fold. When Mara spoke, his voice a trembling breath against Syllke’s still damp flesh, Syllke’s eyes closed and he pressed his mouth against Mara’s forehead. The healer’s hand had come to rest against Syllke’s chest, the sleeve of the robe rumpling to his elbow. Syllke curled his fingers around Mara’s forearm, running them lightly up and then down, his thumb on the upper part, his fingertips lightly caressing its underbelly. Once up, and once down. And what was that? Syllke ran his fingers up to Mara’s wrist, and then back down again. Yes, it wasn’t his imagination. A series of tiny bumps, so perfectly aligned, so perfectly spaced, so regular. So small as to be almost unnoticeable, almost like a series of pinheads, even smaller. “What’re these?” Syllke murmured curiously, his eyes opening as he craned to look into Mara’s beautiful face. “These tiny bumps on your arm?” His other hand was making lazy circles on Mara’s back, and Syllke pressed his lips once more to his forehead.

[Mara]

Mara's senses were shielded, blindfolded in their burying residence against the crook of Syllke’s newly picked wardrobe, conforming to the caresses against his tingling dermis. Like a feline curled about a lap with purring delight, he too was giftwrapped in the imprisonment of his fondness. So much so he detected nothing else. Touches bladed over the cambers of his forearm and orbited the twists of bones along his vertebrae. His throat hummed his pleasant delight. His handles clung to the draped fabric about the artist’s shoulder.

The inquiry took an instant to assimilate, his eyesight coming to focus, as he curved with face still lazed against the other. He twirled his arm to expose the miniscule upraised blemishes to his own sights, and stare at the barely noticeable shadow that was produced to emphasize its reality. His limb then suddenly lured into himself, tucked into his chest with a closed fist pressed at his jaw. An attentive ‘Mmmmm’ poured out of him as he tested his answering options.

"A scar." he stated the palpable to begin with. He had never had to explain it, and how would he? There was no rational way for anyone freestanding of his two-person family to apprehend. He had no notion where to commence, and he began to feel defensive in his discomfort. It was unavoidable, and it throbbed as it discharged over him.

He rocked the arm to himself, wringing a narrowing hold around the wrist of the arm in question. He had actually never felt self-conscious about it before, it had never been noted upon. It was his personal possession. In a bizarre way he almost treasured it as a testament of time his father expended on him. The ridge of morse code would never allow him to forget. Not that he would have anyways.

"A scar from stitches." he furthered for some simplicity pulling it back away from him to look it over with fresh eyes and passed his thumb over the petite knolls. Each correlating elevation extended no less than an inch apart running from just below his wrist to just before his elbow, in perfect symmetry, just like art. If he tried intensely enough he could reminisce how it had suffered, the following weeks he had left it in place and he could sense the cord pull against his undamaged skin.

Mara slipped from between Syllke's comforting arms, fancying a variation in topic. He dodged Syllke's curious gazes since the question was pronounced. He tried to keep it discreet, but he knew he would feel contrarily if their eyes were to meet. He went to seat himself at the desk in the corner and unfastened the bottom drawer, the drawer with the beckoning malt. He suddenly felt very in need of a drink. "It was a long time ago, I'm surprised you noticed something like that." he made the topic casual in hopes of it transitioning more smoothly into something else. Clutches wrung the neck of the bottle that was put out of sight to the back.

Without offering or commenting on the drink in hand he pried the lid off and lifted it to his mouth to sip at the syrupy tart liquor.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Mara’s reactions, so subtle, yet so assuredly a withdrawal, clearly signaled to Syllke that whatever memory was associated with the scar, it was not one the healer had any desire to discuss in detail. Syllke was not the soul of tact, but he understood that Mara would only be further discomforted if he tried to pursue the matter. Besides, he had only asked out of idle curiosity – due to the oddly regular nature of the ever so slightly raised skin. And also because he seemed now wanting to know everything there was to know about Mara, the focus of his emotional being, this intriguing unknown. For is that not a large part of infatuation – the lure of the mysterious “other” that has integrated him or herself so maddeningly into one’s every fiber? The need to discover and unlayer, like some precious, hidden gift, all that the other is and was? But he could leave it, for now. Syllke wasn’t the type to force anyone to anything – except maybe those who insisted on repeating stupid rumor and innuendo. At the same stroke, as Mara slipped from his grasp, he felt the palpable loss of the other boy’s warmth like a rush of cold water against his still tingling skin. He made no attempt to hold him, though, and simply watched as Mara retreated to the desk, and once again bent to withdraw the bottle of liquor from far back in the drawer. The secretive location of the bottle wasn’t lost on Syllke, but he was of an age too when there were many things he did not want his own parents to know about him. So again, it did not seem worth commenting on or worrying over. No doubt, many boys in Avanthal had similar stashes of contraband hidden somewhere. Still, despite Mara’s physical relocation and his putting some distance between them emotionally as well, Syllke wasn’t inclined to remain separated from the focus of his ardor and his affections. Undismayed by Mara’s response to his innocently placed inquiry, Syllke walked to the desk as well. With Mara leaned back in his chair, Syllke slid onto the desk top, sitting before his friend and planting one bare foot to each side of Mara’s silk encased thighs, propping them on the edge of Mara’s seat. Reaching easily for the bottle, he said, “Well, I guess you’re lucky then – to be part of this hold. Whoever did that did a good job – it’s barely noticeable.” He nodded at Mara’s arm. Syllke had made a haphazard guess that Mara’s discomfort might have stemmed from simple embarrassment over the scar being noticed – as a physical blemish. And so Syllke’s words were meant to backtrack over the fact that he had even noticed the scar in the first place. Mara has surrendered the bottle to Syllke’s fingers, and the young artist took a swig before continuing, his eyes swiveling about the room that was so obviously a well used treatment room. “Are your parents healers too? Or maybe just one of them? What do they do?” He took another swig then held the bottle back towards his lovely, odd, complicated and oh-so-wary healer.

[Mara]

Mara nicked the bottle back and captured a plentiful helping. He nodded as he swallowed the fluid down with narrowed eyes dismissal of the acerbic aftertaste "Yes, my father. He comes from a long line of Whitevines." his fingers ran over the mutilation absent-mindedly. "He did this, and yes he is quite brilliant. Everything I know is from him." he bowed his head. The container’s neck still gripped tightly upon the desk’s surface was pressing its frosty contents to his cheek. It was not a falsehood, even if his father had spent little time actually demonstrating his teachings, his journals were comprehensive and well written accounts of his notes, from findings to daily practices. It was simple to sort through it and find new hunks of information he could improve upon. He found it well worth the price he may have paid if his father was irritated enough over the misplacement of his journals.

His mind retracted to his mother. The images he had of her were not diverse. She was a porcelain doll, delicate and quiescent. Her unspoiled dusky mane fanned out beneath her white linens, her paled and finely etched casing, and the bright cherry of her dimming eyes. She was striking in a painful and unique way. He had never seen anyone who looked like her. He was the closest mirror image to her translucent and ghostly form. Some may have called her startling with such a distinguished appearance among the Vantha people. To Mara, she was unrivaled. He recognized that many of his memories of her were likely idealized in his own mind. He had not really had a chance to know her as he would have liked, but he loved her, and knew if she was still alive and if she had been content their lives would be very different.

"When my mother, Senesea, became pregnant with me, my father wanted to come home to Avanthal." the bottle draped back in complete swig and released with a puff of air. "So, several months later I was born just outside The Icewall Gates." He fixed the bottle down upon the desk and slid it through a mere of its own perspiration en route for Syllke. "She was not very involved in the Whitevine holds affairs." his hands rung together feeling awkward speaking of her so insouciantly, it had been a long time since he had even alluded to her out loud. "She never fully recovered after having me." there it was, the acquainted tack of guilt spurring a wincing of his gut into rigor. "She was sick for a long time."

The only memory that pulled ahead of the others was that of her allayed body on the day she passed and the uncontrolled actions as his immature body dug a snowy grave to entomb her in. He could not say what came over him to do such a thing. In his distress he just desired her to be at peace, so he gave her what little he had left to give. His father was furious and heartbroken as they unearthed her frozen figure to bury her in a proper plot. Mara was not trying to hurt him, but he had taken it as severe bash and it was the beginning of their tumultuous relationship.

[Syllke Skyglow]

With Mara’s assertion that his father had been responsible for the line of miniscule bumps running from wrist to elbow, Syllke in no way associated those words with the actual bizarre reason for why Atric took the needle to his young son’s uninjured flesh. He assumed, as any sane person would, that there must have been quite a wound and that the man had done a wondrous job of repair work, to leave only such infinitesimal scarring. And at the healer’s claim that all he knew came from his dad, Syllke’s thoughts ran naturally to the loving and supportive relationship he had with his own father, who had also patiently and encouragingly taught Syllke so much. As had Syllke’s mother, his grandparents, and many other family members. Syllke just took it for granted that Mara had enjoyed the same type of childhood, and what little he had heard the other day when Mara had first brought him to the Whitevine hold, Syllke could merely pass off as someone having a bad day. As Mara went on to speak of his mother, Syllke could tell that the other boy made the assumption that Syllke knew – of his ancestry. Mara didn’t bother to say fromwhere his father had wanted to come home. But Syllke could take a guess – that it was the city of the Symenestra. Quite honestly, Syllke knew little to nothing of the place or the race, except what all Vantha children were warned about, especially the girls – to get them not to wander too far afield. But Mara’s tone was even. There didn’t seem to be any underlying current of anxiety or hesitancy. So Syllke came to the conclusion that he was just an unobservant idiot, in that he had failed to understand right away – right from the first minutes of their first meeting – what those black nails and red eyes signalled. Mara wasn’t bothered by his ancestry – and why should he be? Maybe the tales Syllke had heard were just wild exaggerations – told to keep little children from misbehaving. And if Mara’s mother had been welcone here – welcomed by her husband’s family – if she had made a home in Avanthal – well then, not all Symenestra could be as evil as they were painted to be, right? Syllke was cogitating on all this as Mara explained about his mother – his birth – her illness. And then Syllke waited, to hear that she had finally recovered, and now she did whatever it was she did, here in their home. But Mara’s tale had stopped, it would seem. She was sick for a long time. And then . . . ? Syllke really wasn’t as clueless as he sometimes seemed. With that long, unbroken pause, he could easily finish the thought. And then she died. His heart broke on behalf of his friend. Syllke was so close to his own mother – he could not imagine what it would be like if she died. How long had Mara been without his mother’s love and comfort? Had his father adequately filled in that gaping hole? Syllke could only hope so. The bottle of liquor had once more come sluicing across the desk top into Syllke’s hand. But now he put it aside. Sliding off the desk, he knelt before Mara, his lithe body wedged in between Mara’s calves. Syllke’s arms encircled the other boy’s waist and he laid his cheek to Mara’s chest, hearing the steady drumming of that precious heart. “I’m so sorry, Mara. I – I didn’t realize . . . “ Syllke's voice was barely a whisper, as he contemplated how hard it would be to suffer such a loss. “I wouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.” His arms tightened about that ghostly thin waist in what was meant to be an apologetic and comforting squeeze, rolled into one. He pulled back his head and raised his lavender-blue eyes to Mara’s face. “At least you’ve had your father to take care of you, to love you. But . . . I’m very, very sorry about your mom.”

[Mara]

Syllke's actions were unassuming gestures, ones he appropriated voraciously. The arms about his bowing waist pacified him, vanquishing his implied perdition for a necessitated reprise. As extensive as their parting had been, since their last embrace, since their former assembly was the same pass in time since he had felt an unthreatening grip circle him and suddenly he felt a ceasefire. It was unparalleled, and he craved to settle there, basking in the influences of the pricy opiate of one another’s company. His cheek compressed against Syllke’s silken eiderdown of hair with arms dispersed about his shoulders with dovetailing gaunt digits. He replied with an undertone still curdling from the interior and fearful to disgorge his contents across their pleasantries "Don't be sorry. It was a long time ago." Nearly eight years since her passing. Eight years of accumulated disquiet.

His father, Atric Whitevine, was capricious and perverse. He was a disfigured follower of what he once was, a healer, a husband, and a father. Now he seemed to be only, a healer and a ricochet of one that might have touched some upper crowning. Mara still studied it in his work. He had designs, worthy ones, and groundbreaking ones and he was scrupulous in his technique, just as Mara was. How had he been before? It was hard to recollect explicitly. He was absent often with his career. It seemed hard for him to keep on and guard as his wife dwindled away, so it was allotted instead as Mara’s task. Maybe that was incorrect, maybe that was other manipulation of his mind. Most of what he could hark back up was being home with his mother, caring for her, reading his father’s medical logs, and Hatchi.

At his last mention Mara dragged him away by the width of his arms and seized his cerulean sights. Restrained urgency underscored each glance "Syllke, there is something I need you to understand." He could confess that it expressed more portentous than he assumed it to be, but it was necessary. If something were to include Syllke in his father’s binds of incoherency, he would find these conditions no longer satisfactory. It was his burden to bear, and he would do it single-handedly.

"If you’re to be a part of my life, and I of yours, my father is not someone you want to meet while I am present." he looked over his eyes as if aiming to see if his message was soaking in properly.

"My father is just a fractured man, the weight of his actions are not entirely his own. It's best to just leave him to his own devices." Paling runes tumbled down to his lap once more. However impossible it may seem he felt badly instructing someone to be mindful his father's company. Mara did not think he was a villainous creature. Just like someone with an injury, his father had sustained a grievance that could not be appreciated or mended and it was taking him apart piece by piece. Nothing anyone did would replace it, except diverging the blame away from himself and living in his misconstrued reality

[Syllke Skyglow]

What echoes of sadness and melancholy might have reverberated in Mara’s voice were carefully hidden from the boy who knelt before him, so sympathetically embracing him. Syllke wondered at the flatness, but could make no sense of it, other than that Mara simply could not speak of it more. But he wasn’t left to ponder further, for Mara pulled slightly back, taking him in his grip and looking him somberly in the eye. The young healer spoke of his father, in stringent tones that left no room for doubt. He was being quite serious with his stricture that Syllke not be around Atric Whitevine, skilled healer that was, broken man that had taken his place. Again, with such foreign concepts as parental alienation, Syllke was hard put to piece together the foundations for Mara’s warning. All he could do was nod, slowly, having no reason to question Mara’s cautioning, even though he did not understand it. “Alright,” he said, frowning the tiniest bit, but then smiling – the type of smile meant to entice another into a lighter, brighter mood. Syllke’s fingers went to tug lightly at one errant strand of sable which hung down in front of Mara’s still serious face. “Message received, captain. Now . . . let me think of some other way to use up all the rest of your afternoon.” Syllke stretched, his head tilting until his lips pressed against Mara’s once more, his fingers going to stroke gently against the satiny stubble of the shaved half of the other boy’s head. Le Fin