Fall

I prowl around his room, restless. It doesn't seem to have changed at all over the five years I've known him. It probably hasn't changed at all since he first began to live here. If you didn't know him, it might even be considered the room of someone who was incredibly stable, secure in their own opinion of their self. I, of course, know better than the casual observer. The unchanging constancy of the room reflects its owner's fear of adulthood, his continued clinging to a childhood he should have long ago grown out of. He fears to expand himself beyond the capacity of the room.

Over my shoulder, I flash him an angelic grin, and bounce onto the lower of the two bunk beds set against the wall. This one's his. I pick up an old stuffed toy and hold it as I bounce, up and down, over and over, testing the strength of the mattress beneath me.

He wants me to stop. I can tell by the way his grey eyes go round behind thick glass lenses. Bouncing on beds is something that is Not Done. We seem to go over this every time. This time, though, it'll be different. I fight to control the grin spreading across my features, knowing how strange it would look on this child's face. He walks, slow with hesitance and nervousness, over to the bed. He stares down at me, trying to look stern. I smile up at him. I'm always smiling up at him, even when we're both standing, and I know it makes him more comfortable with me, in some odd way.

His sternness wavers and a blush floods his solid face.

In that moment of uncertainty, I grab his hands and spin, sending him sprawling back into the pillows and me to my feet. I wobble unsteadily as I try to regain my footing and flash a playful grin at him. He looks adorably confused, his mess of brown-blond hair put into utter disarray. He tries to sit up, and I push him back into the pillows without any effort on my part. One of my small, plump hands presses against his chest briefly before I straighten. He wasn't trying.

I tell him I'm going to open the window. He looks baffled and I know he wants to ask why, when it's cold and dark and rainy, but he's far too embarrassed. He's afraid to appear ignorant in front of me. I'm glad. Even if he asked, any explanation would ruin the surprise.

I've always liked to do it while listening to the rain. The smell is invigorating, the sound stimulating, splashing, dripping, thundering down. Each variety of storm has its own charm. Each adds something to the moment. On those times when climates would not accommodate my needs, I would force them, bringing wild speculation and puzzlement to the people of the area for weeks to come. The symbolism, I had always believed, was important to. Bringing everything together to work for the perfect moment marked the difference between someone who merely did the job, and someone like me, a true artist.

I pause by the window a moment, letting a few drops splash across my skin. I shiver in delight, and bound back to the bed. He nearly jumps out of his skin as I land with particular enthusiasm, laughing wildly. The force throws both our equilibrium off and I land on top of him, our noses touching, my feet lying slightly below his knees. I smile, warmly, lovingly, meltingly and brace my hands on either side of his head . . .

And he shoves me off!

The little pure heart shoves me off!

I try not to let my irritation at the situation show on my face, as he sits up and straightens his uniform. His face is flushed, and he stammers something, ever-incoherent, and I know he wants me. The fact makes my blood boil even more, but I keep my laughing face on.

I was purposely hampered for this, I realize, having been cursed and bound into the body of the seduced instead of the seducer. Such an indignity. But also a challenge. I will rise to it, or die. There's nothing to be done but lower myself to a backward, inverted seduction.

I flinch, suddenly, and clasping my hands over my heart. I bend my head down and whimper, feigning pain with the ease of recent experience. This body is weak.

He is abruptly all concerned attention, the awkwardness of before instantly forgotten in his concern for my welfare. I protest, I blush, I try to be strong and deny any kind of problem, but his rare firmness of spirit shines through as it always does. Ignoring my feeble denials, he unbuttons my jacket and carefully removes it, followed by the shirt I have on beneath it. Obsessively, he folds the garments neatly, placing them on the floor before taking both my hands in his and squeezing them gently, and inspects my chest. He touches it lightly with his fingertips, then feels my forehead, asking if I feel warm. A murmured noise of assent is easy, it feels like I'm on fire, with only the smell of the rain cooling my senses. He frowns, checking my pulse before putting his arm around me in concern.

I snuggle into his embrace and press against his chest, resting my head on his collar bone.

He blushes and lets go of my hands, but doesn't jerk away. Instead, he reaches up and touches my hair, increasing out contact.

I smile up at him, a smile of pure, angelic, virginal love and blush, tilting my head into his nervous caress.

He stares into my eyes, which I widen in encouragement, and stammers out a confused love confession.

I glow and lean up to capture his lips with mine, kissing him softly while one of my hands unlaces his pants and begins to tug them down.

That makes him jerk away, breaking our kiss clumsily and sending me sprawling. He looks startled and scandalized, eyes huge behind his glasses.

Resisting the urge to curse until I'm blue in the face, I begin to stammer apologies. I'm so very sorry and I understand if he never wants to see me again. I was rude. I'm awful. I'll go right now. I reach for my clothes, but his hand wraps gently around my wrist.

Rather awkwardly, he admits he doesn't want me to leave, he just wants to make me happy. Inside, I smirk. He's so predictable. Then, he brings his other hand up and wipes something off my cheek with his thumb.

Tears? Ridiculous.

I let him pull me back onto his bed. I tell him, with a blush, that I want my first time to be with him, and ask in a tiny voice if he'll be gentle.

You could knock him over with a feather, right now, but he manages to croak out some kind of affirmation.

I smile up at him and carefully reach up, removing his glasses and setting them gently on the floor. For a moment, I'm caught. He isn't attractive. He's very plain, stodgy, and boring. But, those eyes, warm grey pools fringed by ridiculously long lashes, are beautiful. I shake myself and lean up to share another kiss, as we both try to get the others clothes off. I guide his hands without him knowing. Somewhere, between kisses that grow more intense and heated with each second, I heard a voice that whispers "I don't deserve you." It can't be mine.

I don't think he hears it.

Somehow, in our adolescent fumbling, we manage to divest ourselves of the cumbersome, useless garments. He's on top of me, heavy and very real.

He isn't very good.

He's rather awful, in fact, but I don't stop him. This is necessary.

I don't think I could ask him to stop even if I wanted to. I moan his name until my voice is rough and tears run down my cheeks.

It hurts a lot.

When we part, I make no mention of the pain. I realize, in a stunned way, that it's my blood staining the sheets. He looks exhausted, I'm panting, and we're both coated in sweat. But I still have a job to do, and looking at him, I know I haven't done it, not yet.

I grab his wrist and he turns to look at me, face red and startled. I can't help myself from smiling ferally as I tell him it's my turn. There's something odd in his eyes and something inside of me cringes at the look he gives me.

If he said no, I realize in horror, I couldn't force my will upon him.

Time stretches out into infinity.

I can't breathe.

He says, at last, that I have a point. It's only fair. Then he rolls over and doesn't speak again.

I straddle him and go at it with everything I have, even though I ache. He makes no noise, and his eyes are shut the entire time. His only responses are physical. I go until I'm exhausted and have nothing left.

I roll over and lie on my back, wince, then roll onto my stomach. I pant heavily into the pillows.

He curls up, by himself, with one arm wrapped around a pillow, the other holding the blankets of his body like a shield.

I watch him sleep, his hair sticking to his scalp with sweat, his long lashes glued to his wet cheeks. In the darkness, he's very beautiful, and a touch a smattering of freckles that's on his cheek, tracing it down his neck and onto his body. Hidden by darkness and thin blankets, I can still find the sun marks that cover all of his pale skin.

My heart aches. I don't want to be away from him, ever. I put it down to the heat of the moment. I make my way across the bed, and my knee slides through something warm and sticky. His blood, or mine, or both, mingled together by our passion. I wipe it off.

I stand, and in the darkness, I can hear my Master call. A sudden muffled deafness is lifted at last, and I can hear His voice. I step toward the window, and with each step I can feel my body becoming its proper self again.

I put my hands on the window sill, the rain running over my knuckles, and I glance over my shoulder. He lies in bed, alone. Stupidly, I want to wake him up, to explain, to apologize.

To promise to come back.

I ruffle my wings in irritation. My Master calls, after so long, and I could not remain a moment longer, even if I wished to. I have to return to Him. I am a dog running home at the sound of my name, foolish and weak, needing my Master more than I need air, or food.

Or love.

He'll understand.