Chapter 39

Intermission

Aix didn’t move, always one for letting everyone else get up and leave first; instead, he pet Gogo, the kitten purring up a storm and kneading with his fresh-clipped claws on Aix’s thigh, eventually letting Aix turn him over and cradle him like a baby, petting his face and neck, and a little of his chest. Gogo let him, because Aix was safe, and never touched Gogo to hurt him. Even going to the vet had been explained; and, afterward, Gogo felt strongly that humans were very magical, indeed.

Aix’s favourite thing was just to hold him and pet him, and while Gogo still liked to play and run, it was very nice to have a big warm friend with hands who just wanted to share them with you, and that was all.

Cthulhu reached out to Aix, almost shy. Are you okay?

Aix had wondered why Cthulhu was so quiet, but knowing why René had been so quiet had put him in mind that anyone quiet may just struggle as much with speaking up as anybody anxious or easily overwhelmed. Now, however, he saw Cthulhu had been trying very hard to let Aix have his independence and autonomy, and Aix loved him all over again. Cthulhu was wrapped around him in the space between breaths—and someone with tentacles gave very comprehensive hugs.

‘I love you,’ Aix said. ‘I missed you so much—no, no Gogo, it’s okay, it’s okay, Gogo,’ he said, as the kitten squirmed and panicked. But Aix let him go, not trapping him, and Gogo leapt off him, though he hid under the table, not going too far, trusting Aix’s tone, understanding his words—and, after a moment, the strange not-human that had appeared so suddenly and wrapped around Aix.

I am a friend.

SNAKESNAKESNAKE!!!! Gogo answered, fluffing out and hissing at the snake coming toward him, raising a paw to strike repeatedly at it as hard as he could—all the harder because his claws were blunted so he didn’t hurt his witch’s soft skin.

Chtulhu saw that the cat was possessed of a very strong instinct to fear anything that resembled a snake, and pulled away.

‘Let him be, Jojo,’ Aix said softly. ‘You just startled him, that’s all. Cats are prey animals.’

‘He thinks I am a snake. My tendrils.’

‘Also that,’ Aix said, unsurprised. ‘We can get him acclimated, just give him a little time. Maybe Pippin can help explain you to him, she’s good at that.’

‘I have missed Pippin. I think I will join the garden party, and get to know my little cousins.’

Aix noticed how he was using more vernacular, however carefully he still set each word out. ‘That sounds like a great idea,’ he said.

‘You should rest.’

‘I should,’ Aix said, uncomfortable at speaking aloud on a weakness like being tired. He didn’t want to need rest, there was so much to do and so many conversations he wanted to have, and kept getting interrupted by needing rest or food or….

Mistress was in front of him. ‘May I cut in?’ she asked in her quiet voice. Aix looked up immediately, the words Yes, Mistress! Trying to leap out of his mouth. He held them in; she wasn’t his Mistress.

‘Sure,’ he said, not casually enough.

‘I misjudged your intentions,’ she said, ‘against what my colleagues and friends had told me about you.’

‘I mean, that’s understandable?’ Aix said, bewildered. ‘You have every right not to trust a white person? Like ever again?’ It wasn’t the first time he’d said this, but it was the first time it hadn’t been to an angry teenaged classmate who was too worked up to hear the words he was saying.

She was surprised into a laugh, at that. ‘That is refreshing,’ she said. ‘But only applies to strangers, you know. You were not a stranger.’

‘Well,’ Aix said, not having a sentence after that. ‘Um,’ he went on, eloquently, and then decided to be straightforward. ‘I’m not good at this,’ he said, ‘I don’t—I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, or how I’m supposed to reply.’

She chuckled, but touched his shoulder gently. ‘Forgive me, I’m used to talking to politicians. What I mean is that I would like to apologise to both you and Pippin, for dragging clowns into a spotlight they have never wanted.’

Aix didn’t know what to say to that; because it wasn’t okay—Pippin and all the other clowns were going to be very upset and scared, and Aix didn’t trust anyone who had been around this table to really comply with not treating sapient animals like people; but it had also been an honest miscommunication informed by very reasonable concerns. ‘I appreciate your apology,’ he said, feeling like he didn’t deserve it at all, not really knowing what to do with that.

‘The good doctor tells me you have some interest in bimbofication,’ she said, changing the subject. It would be a shock, but she sensed that was needed here; she wanted to see him open up.

‘Oh, yes,’ Aix said, relaxing fractionally. ‘I guess it’s not surprising you know what it is, even if nobody that knows you seems to.’

She chuckled at the slight tone of disappointment in his voice, sitting down in the chair the King had recently vacated, and crossing her shapely, nylon-clad legs. ‘Have you met my dear little Honey?’

‘I have not!’

‘Mm, she’s frolicking around in the garden, I think,’ Mistress said, smiling. ‘You know science, everyone says. I have a question that has no ready answers, perhaps you might know.’ She got up. ‘Step out onto the balcony with me?’ She glanced up at Cthulhu. ‘I wish to speak privately to him, please.’

‘Is there somewhere to sit?’ Aix said, but was getting up, hugging Cthulhu one last time. She means you need to go, he explained, feeling Cthulhu not quite understanding.

When you are finished with her question, I want to show you something I found. It is very beautiful and René told me if I find a beautiful thing, it is a good gift to bring you alone to see it.

I’d love to, I missed you too. Aix went up on tiptoe to kiss Cthulhu’s cheek—or as near to it as he could get, anyway, with how tall Cthulhu was. Then, Aix went out onto the balcony with Mistress, the night air cool but still summery, the sound of crickets and nightbirds somewhat drowned out by the laughter, honking, and sounds of playing in the garden below, which had no lights but the glow from the clowns. He sat down on one of the willow chairs by the balcony railing, looking out at the garden and the dark vale beyond, and the stars. The moon had been full before they’d left New York—it was waning now, half in darkness but not quite the Cheshire smile that was Aix’s favourite.

White flowers climbed the railing and up the wall, trained away from the balcony floor; they were open, despite the darkness, and looked like morning glories; Aix wasn’t great at identifying flowers, but he did happen to know these were moonflowers—they smelled apple-y, which he’d never known, and the formidable hulk of them, the proliferation of star-shaped blooms as they climbed up the castle wall, said they’d been here a while. There were a lot of moths fluttering around them, and one bopped clumsily against Aix’s cheek, which made him giggle.

Mistress shut the balcony doors, her heels clicking on the stones in a way that made Aix shiver agreeably—high heels on stone, the slight gravel-rasp with the clicketing, was one of his favourite sounds in a very passively aroused sort of way. He never said anything, though, just enjoying it as part of the rest of the sensual pleasure from the surroundings. He’d been feeling jittery and almost panicked in the meeting, but coming outside and sinking into the smell of the garden flowers and the forest beyond, and the darkness, and the fresh air, with the sounds of happy playing below, had fixed his mood. And the heeled step of Mistress as she came back over to sit on the willow chair next to Aix was just icing on that cake.

‘My dear Honey is the only of my dolls that wished to be milked; and further, to have me drink of her.’ And she paused, watching Aix carefully; he lived in René’s city, in Mistress’ old one, and part of her still felt protective of Baltimore, and felt entitled to judge this new not-Hunter. Would he be as vanilla as every other Hunter before?

Instead of disgust, however, she scented arousal, and saw those pupils go a little wider, and not because of the dark. She went on before he could ask why she’d paused, ‘I found that contrary to her milk being ashes in my mouth, it nourished me, as much as blood—perhaps more. Obviously, this is not a question one can look up in any library or internet archive, but there is no record of it among our archives either—and I do not wish to make it known widely, not until I understand it.’

‘Milk is filtered blood,’ Aix said. ‘It’s all blood. Everything is filtered blood. That’s what blood is for.’

‘Hm,’ Mistress said, and was quiet for a bit. Was it that simple? Could it be that simple? She chuckled to herself at her own silliness, in thinking something so enormously changing would have to be complicated. ‘I have never received nutrition from any other bodily fluid.’

‘Well, milk is supposed to be nutritious. All the others are waste, other than the ones that are lubricant.’

If the thought she’d ever been in situations to consume other things disgusted him, she didn’t see evidence of it—and at her age, her level of perception, that meant there simply wasn’t any.

‘I understand what René meant about talking to you being relaxing. You have absolutely no judgement, no hang-ups about anything.’

‘I do not!’ Aix laughed.

‘No disgust?’

‘Not for bodies or sex, no. Bodies are a wonderful organic machine, and sex is just one of the wonderful and powerful things that bodies can do.’ Aix paused, thoughtfully. ‘I don’t… have a lot of disgust, overall,’ he said, with a tone of a man having a realisation. ‘I have involuntary physical reactions that other people mistake for disgust, but it’s not, like, a thing I was taught.’ Which was, Aix thought, rather startling, considering he did have OCD. ‘Anyway, I understand not wanting to go public with this just yet.’ He looked away, and she knew he was hiding something. ‘Your submissive is really lucky,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’d love to have working teats.’

He wasn’t looking at her, but Mistress was sure her eyes lit with an eager flame, at those words. ‘Would you…’ she breathed. She’d been told by colleagues and spies of hers that this witch was trans in some fashion, but gender didn’t mean anything, when it came to kinks….

‘It’s… it’s weird. My whole life I wanted them gone, because they hurt, and so all I got to experience was the bad side of having tits—the overheating, the chafing, the pain, the harassment, the slut-shaming—and not the good parts. But fake ones don’t work, so…’ He fiddled with his French cuffs. ‘Sorry,’ he said, finally. ‘You didn’t um, you didn’t sign up to hear my thoughts on this.’

‘I don’t get to hear thoughts on this enough for my liking,’ Mistress said with a soft little smile. ‘Not from this perspective. I might be able to give you working tits, depending on your surgical history.’

‘I don’t know the details of like, whether I still have lymph nodes or anything, because I never got follow-up appointments and my ex husband threw me out before I could go to them.’ As always, it was difficult to go over those memories, Aix angry that he couldn’t enjoy the surgery because once again the people he lived with were so abusive and selfish.

Mistress seemed to know how to draw the pain out; not by Aix’s usual method, of covering up the pain with jokes and a mask that wore a smile, but not with the violent forced catharsis Aix had learnt in asylums and from therapists either. They just talked—they talked about the finer points of plastic surgery, and about Aix’s surgeon, who was a friend of Mistress’, that Mistress had taught a few techniques. She got him to actually open up about the complicated tangle of feelings that resided in teats, for him—shame and desire and resentment and longing and wishing badly they were not so gendered, telling her of fruit bats, where all adults lactated, with the tone of someone who envied them, and too, who held the knowledge of this as the most precious treasure he had ever found in his life—and the sorrow of loss, of never having had the chance to enjoy his own, for they hadn’t been right, not really, and he wasn’t supposed to have had them.

‘To be intersex—to be hermaphroditic,’ he said, softer, fiercer. ‘I hate calling myself intersex, it’s so cold. Hermaphroditos is my god, and I was made like to him, and there is no shame in that—to be a hermaphrodite, that is a terrible pain to live with. The software is male, and I’m not—I’m not well, on the hormones that make teats. Œstrogen makes me sick, and so much of my sickness goes away when I’m on T. But it’s—it’s hard, to not be able to shapeshift. I should be able to shapeshift,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘Tell me,’ Mistress asked, ‘and I know this is a difficult question to ask; if the software was female, if your body could be as healthy as you are now, and still have fertility, and milk, would you?’

‘Yes. If I knew my body felt better when I had an E-dominant system, yes, in a heartbeat. I wanted to be a lady, when I was little. But I got the wrong puberty. I got, like, huge tits, but they weren’t right. They were always empty, like post-menopausal tits, but I was eight!’ he said, with rising anger, old anger and pain.

‘And my period didn’t come until I was sixteen! It was all wrong, even though on the surface, nobody understood. They ignored everything that was wrong—I had tits, and they were huge, so I must be really feminine, and nevermind about the hair, everyone has hair. But… I’ve seen lots of naked people. Regular people. Tits aren’t supposed to be furry, not like mine. They aren’t supposed to be sunken, not in your teens when you just got them. There was something wrong, and nobody would believe me, and I didn’t even know how to explain it.’ He cupped his hands over his nose and mouth, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, sighing. ‘Sorry. I just—’ He sniffled, pulling out a handkerchief and taking off his glasses, laying them on the side-table and covering his face.

‘Yes,’ he said, finally. ‘All I have ever wanted is to have had the right puberty. But that’s not what my body wants or needs. It needs to be full of testosterone. My body needs testosterone—it’s too fragile without it, it needs the coarseness. My voice needs to sound like this, as much as I miss singing higher, I don’t—speaking in a soprano range feels… it hurts, it’s wrong. I need it for so many things, it makes everything feel better, work better. Physically. And—having big tits is just like… something I was promised, that became a kink because I wanted it so much, and… I can’t. Trying would just make me sick, and hurt. I have to listen to my body, I have to, because nobody else ever did. It doesn’t matter what my heart wants, this is the body I have, this is the body I was given. It’s not as simple as what I want, like everyone says.’

‘Everyone?’

‘All the trans stuff, you know. “You can be whatever gender you want to be” and “You can take whatever hormones or do whatever mods you want”. Bullshit,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Some of us are made of wet tissue paper and pain.’

‘Those who have never gone through surgery often do not understand that even plastics carry risk, and long-term effects. And those who wish to destroy transgender people have also destroyed any chance of the conversation having nuance, or consideration for an individual’s health.’

‘Preach,’ Aix said, with a watery laugh. ‘Everything I just said is so taboo. Other trans people would take it in such bad faith.’

‘I don’t,’ she said, quietly. Aix didn’t reply, but she felt the tone of his silence change.

‘You did not go from female to male; you started somewhere that is not at all female. Why would others on a different road have your experience, your needs, even if their destination is the same?’

Aix sat with that a while, looking out at the night sky, listening to the insects, the playful voices and laughter below them, the avian noises of clowns at play.

Distantly, there was the lonely song of a wolf’s howl.

He didn’t want to accept that he’d never been a girl to begin with. Accepting that would mean… what, exactly? What did it mean for him? What did it mean outside of the cesspit of insults and lies and bullying?

Outside of bullying, or the potential thereof—there was an alien concept, he thought to himself. How long had he been living his life just… expecting every person he met to start a fight, putting on his armour of silence and arm’s-length on every day, learning from the trauma at the hands of cruel people…

Is this how the world is?

To be beaten and betrayed and then be told that nothing changes
That it will always be like this?

…But who are they to say
What the truth is anyway?

‘Are you a sister, then?’ he asked, softly, needing to know, to know for sure. He didn’t like the ambiguity of implication.

‘Would it matter more if I was?’

She saw him think, at that, looking away, down, and saying softly, ‘I had an aunt like me, but the other way around. On the Italian side,’ he said, as reply. ‘I never… I never got to know her. I don’t.’ He took a shaky breath, tears on the edge of his voice again. ‘I don’t think I was allowed.’

He was quiet for a while, breaths shuddering, and swallowed hard. ‘It hurts. Losing that. I think about it all the time.’

‘You are not alone, anymore,’ Mistress said softly, getting to her feet, and offering her hand.

He took it, but paused before pulling himself up. It was endearing, she thought, that he telegraphed his emotions in such a quietly dramatic way, with those pauses. It felt like being part of a story.

‘Come inside, Mr Asher can help you find a little peace before the rest of the meeting.’ ✨

‘And by “peace” do you mean “orgasm”?’ Aix joked, and felt exceedingly accomplished and wonderful when she actually laughed. She had a very rich laugh, the sort of laugh people had called ‘plummy’ once upon a time….

⁂

Mistress led him to a smaller, more intimate room on the same floor, one that didn’t look over the garden, in fact didn’t have any windows at all, only a fireplace and a thick Persian rug on the floor, and, stretched out over a piece of furniture that was clearly presenting itself as a chaise lounge, but was so deep and so wide and covered in so many pillows and furs it was functionally a bed, Mr Asher.

Aix felt like all the anxiety he now had around sex suddenly evaporated, which was actually quite a relief, and made him realise that trauma was a kind of chronic pain. But it was secondary to the arousal, which didn’t feel scary or anything, just… nice.

He was so rarely aroused, since leaving his ex-husband. It was his favourite feeling, his favourite peace, and he felt no pressure to kneel, nor to pounce; he moved through the room, drifted toward the chaise and sat down on the corner, then just… fell back, sighing.

‘Thank you,’ he said, quietly, to them both.

‘Beautiful boy,’ Asher’s voice was a whisper layered over a purr, and Aix felt him shifting on the sofa, moving to drape next to Aix, one soft hand slowly coming to rest over Aix’s heart. When he saw the tears, he softly brushed them away. ‘Tell me what you want.’

I want to be comfortable in my skin again, Aix thought, I want to feel pretty, but that wasn’t really what Mr Asher was asking, exactly… Aix tried to figure out what he wanted, in the context of something that would help right then, in that moment, ‘…I want René. Sorry,’ he said, mortified and covering his mouth—but Asher caught his hand.

‘Shh, you’ve nothing to be sorry for, sweet boy. Of course you want your Master.’

Aix squirmed, making a happy little noise, at that.

‘Stay here, morsel,’ Asher said, kissing his forehead.

‘Yes sir…’ Aix lilted softly, basking in the joy of being seen, of being allowed this. After the council meeting he was definitely leaving the room with René and making sure everybody knew he was René’s boy and… oh.

Oh.

Aix didn’t believe in love. It wasn’t really because he’d been traumatised by relationships—of all kinds—it was more because what people called ‘romantic love’ was more about an agreed-upon language and a set of rituals that were agreed to mean certain things, and a set of expectations that were agreed to mean certain things. And he’d always felt very outside all of that type of thing, given that communicating with others, understanding other human beings, was so hard for him.

But when kink came into it, he could suddenly understand a relationship. Daddy and Boy, Mistress and Girl, Master and Servant. That made sense. That had clear-cut rules that got explained, that everyone negotiated constantly rather than assuming.

He’d never really found that, with anyone, no matter what they said—because it wasn’t just about the dynamic—they had to have the confidence, the experience, the knowledge, on top of just… being able to play how Aix had to play—it seemed like a pretty big ask, and Aix was frustrated that the only people that were willing to do it were only doing it because they could use it to abuse and control him later.

Except now, there was René. René, who read his work and left long, thoughtful, analytic comments in their private chat. René, who asked thoughtful questions about his art, gave prompts that Aix actually found inspiring, who seemed to understand.

(It was so much, to be understood.)

And not only that, but his presence was so calming, his confidence was catching; that’s why it was so odd that he’d been so invisible at the meeting so far. Aix didn’t begrudge him, but it was startling. He hadn’t said anything, as yet; however, Aix knew, from Cameron and other people that knew the vampire, that René was known for being unobtrusive and quiet in groups, letting others speak and mostly observing. Aix also knew, again from other people, that at least some of that was a result of being under Diedrichs’ boot. Even so, until now, it hadn’t ever felt like an anxious sort of quiet, it felt like what Aix always phrased, ‘I’m listening. I’m listening carefully.’

In short, it felt like a Vetinari sort of silence, which was very sexy to someone like Aix, who had spent his whole life until now being ignored.

The door opened, and Aix sat up, lighting up when he saw René. As always, René felt like such an expression was a gift—for Aix did not smile often, not politely and not reflexively; no, he only smiled when he was truly moved to do so.

He’d asked for René, Asher had said; even in a room where Asher was in full bloom, offering him anything, he’d asked for René. While René was neither foolish nor young enough to lose his head and call that sign ‘love’, nevertheless, Aix had asked for René. That meant something, particularly because Asher could only bring forward desire that was already there, make it louder so that it was given voice; particularly, because Aix did not trust—nor desire—easily. He thought people were attractive, but that didn’t seem to get past intimidation and into lust.

‘Hello, boy,’ René said softly, shutting the door. They were ritual words, for Aix, and René liked the way he could see the calming effect; Aix often said The Right Words were important, but they hadn’t been in each other’s physical presence very much, owing to Aix having to hide up in Manhattan, so this was the first René could actually witness what it did.

‘Hello, Domine,’ Aix said softly, and didn’t really know how to go forward from there, and was frustrated. But René just sat down next to him and held him, smelling softly of his complex perfume notes—Aix could identify jasmine and vanilla just now, and cinnamon…. Trying to catalogue the notes helped him get enough distance to realise the post-socialising panic was setting in, and maybe he was also overwhelmed by just… everything.

‘What do you need, chou chou?’ René asked him, petting his hair. Sometimes, you couldn’t ask someone that; but one of the wonderful things about the present day was that many people could answer that question, now. Aix was very self-aware; it was only that nobody ever asked him.

‘Comfort,’ Aix said, pressing his face into René’s chest. René made soft clucking noises, like always, and held him, murmuring in French, little nothings in the type of voice Aix had never had from anybody ever, not before now. Sympathy, and perhaps other people thought that tone patronising; but when you’d gone your whole life being told that you, personally, didn’t get the luxury of someone fussing over you, because you were monstrous mature and shouldn’t need comfort, well…. Aix started crying, not really sure why but thankful that being confused and trying to overanalyse it wasn’t stopping the tears; but René held him, quiet and still and gentle, and most of all, patient.

People were never patient with him; even now, even with René assuring him he could cry, Aix was so ashamed of crying in front of someone that it was a wonder he still was, instead of it choking out in a panic attack. It felt good, but it didn’t feel possible.

Quietly, and to himself, even as he murmured small comforts, René wondered if it was the right time to speak the word love. He and Aix were both wary of speaking on it, of saying it, both carrying a great deal of hurt tied up in that word, in that kind of relationship, and all its expectations, all the ways it changed how people behaved—themselves included. And words were so important to Aix. His soul was made of words, they had power over him.

Was this, René wondered, what it was to be intimate with one of the fae? He hadn’t ever had this close a relationship with any of them, before….

René suspected that friendship and trust were words of more value and less weapon than love and boyfriend were—at least, in English. French was another matter—there were no tripwires in French, for Aix; and, happily, René’s master had spoken Dutch, and had never bothered to use French as a weapon (his master had never spoken it well enough).

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ Aix sobbed. ‘No—no listen—there’s so much—social stuff, and manners, and—and—I’m tired of rituals! I wanna sit next to you and—and Joe! This is stupid!’

René squeezed him. ‘Then be bold and defiant, mon sorcier, as your gods command you to be.’

Aix calmed, at that, and was quiet for a while, his breathing getting back to normal. ‘Yeah,’ he said, in a fiercer voice, however watery. ‘You know what? Yeah. Fuck the man!’

René chuckled. ‘Vive la revolution,’ he agreed.

‘Yeah! Make life take the lemons back!’

René couldn’t help the laughter, at that, and kissed Aix’s forehead. ‘Mon sorcier indomptable!’ he said fondly. Aix gifted him with a smile, for that.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and then, ‘Jeez, my face is probably a mess…’

‘I can fix that,’ René said, softly.

Oh.

Oh.

He understood now, why Aix spoke in allusions. Those four words had such a profound, beautiful effect, in a way their meaning couldn’t have, and perhaps never did, if stated directly.

(He had never been a poet, had never had a way with words; his art was movement, was action, was service, was healing; no matter what the stereotype about Frenchmen was, the only beauty René could make with his mouth didn’t involve his voice. And so, too, had been his lovers: all those that spoke love with their bodies, their actions—until now.)

I can fix that…

Those four little words said everything he wanted to say, and more. He had read the story they were from, he made effort to find and read most things Aix mentioned, wanting to understand him—and, more, liking his taste in art. Cameron, Michel, and Janice were certainly willing to recommend things they liked, but the fiction was often not in genres that piqued René’s interest further than getting to know the recommender better. But with Aix… in the past fortnight, René felt like he’d truly discovered the present, had a guide to the foundations of a culture he’d somehow missed the building of in the noise, the sheer massive scale, the utter breakneck speed… it had all been so overwhelming, and René feared he was reaching the end of his ability to interact with mortals at all; but Aix had been happy to explain that no, even mortals struggled with this, and had given René tools and advice.

And now, Aix was overwhelmed by René’s world, by a culture René found soothingly simple and familiar; but to Aix, it was distressingly alien and complex, too demanding, asking too much of him. So, René led Aix over to the marble-topped vanity in this room, not needing lights; and, after Aix took off his glasses, gently used the cold cream to clean up the mess Aix’s tears had made of his makeup, wiping his face clean with one of the soft cloths from the small basket on the marble top beneath the large mirror.

‘Shall we start over, chou chou?’ he said softly.

‘Okay,’ Aix said, feeling better already. ‘Do whatever you want.’

René did not take that vulnerability as an invitation to tease, but merely hummed thoughtfully, looking through the drawers; Roseblade, René, and the others always brought extra of their cosmetic staples, to have here in the room off the council chambers.

‘I think something that makes you look more yourself,’ René said.

‘I wish I could,’ Aix said, softly. ‘I’d have to change clothes, and that’s a long walk.’

‘Ah, but mon sorcier,’ René said, pulling the bell-rope, ‘we have servants.’

‘Oh, right,’ Aix said, a little embarrassed. René kissed it away softly.

‘It took me years to get used to it,’ he assured the boy gently, opening the brass container of kohl, handing the coated wand to Aix to apply, holding the mirror for him.

‘What am I doing, here?’ Aix asked. ‘Just a basic waterline?’

‘Oui. Domine will do the rest.’

Aix smiled, and relaxed a bit more. ‘Thank you,’ he said, softly. He was just finishing when a servant came into the room. She and René spoke to one another for a bit, and it took a moment for Aix’s brain to realise it was the wrong colours to be French, as he had assumed; no, it was Romanian. He still wasn’t sure what colours his synæsthesia interpreted Romanian to be, but French had very distinctive colours, and this wasn’t quite them. She left again, and René took the kohl wand back from Aix, gently cupping his chin and looking at him—not into his eyes, but at his face. Aix felt the tingles that personal attention always gave him start in his scalp and wash over him, relaxing him more.

‘Good boy,’ René purred, ‘close your eyes.’

René knew just as well as any of the fops what calm and pleasure there was in having someone else do your makeup, and he’d wanted to do Aix’s makeup again, ever since the first time. Tonight, Aix had surprised René when he’d appeared with such a subtle face; it was well done, but it didn’t seem to fit with Aix’s personality. René knew exactly what Aix liked, what Mask he needed. Aix needed the stark black and white goth makeup: black lips, hollowed eyes, small lines bisecting his eyes, such as clowns had….

‘…Are you drawing clown-lines on me?’

‘Oui,’ René said, not stopping.

‘Why?’

‘You need to look like yourself,’ René said simply.

When René finished, Aix’s face was powdered white; his cheeks shaded with the sharp edge made so fashionable by the drag queens; lips painted black, with lines extending past their corners too, a goth’s ever-present allegiance to clowndom; blue eyes made more intense by the darkness wreathing them, bisected by hair-thin clown-lines, eyebrows seeming sharper though René hadn’t changed their shape at all, only darkened them. René didn’t have to do anything to make Aix’s brows sharp and forbidding, their natural shape had the dangerous and pointed arch on their own, all René did was darken it, make it visible and crisp around the edges.

It was deceptively simple, but it was effective, and there was a knock on the door just as René was sitting back, tilting Aix’s face this way and that, making sure all was even and symmetrical… and, also, letting the boy a few moments to come out of the blissful trance of submission he was, clearly, in. René was pleased to give him such a thing, especially so early in their relationship.

‘Stay,’ René ordered in his softest voice. ‘I am going to the door to get your new outfit.’

‘Should I get naked, Domine?’ Aix asked dreamily. René chuckled, kissing Aix’s head gently.

‘If you like,’ he said; while he might have said for Aix to allow Domine to undress him, he wasn’t sure yet how much control Aix liked his dominant partner to have, and Aix’s vanilla relationship with authority was a bad one.

It was so thrilling, having a new submissive after all this time! Cameron had been René’s newest before Aix, so there hadn’t exactly been a dry spell; but it the shine never wore off on getting to know a new lover.

As it happened, Cameron was the one at the door, holding the black clothes René had asked for. René wasn’t surprised; most of the council had a sort of weary resignation about the quality of the king’s staff. It wasn’t that the staff themselves were bad people, it was more that you couldn’t just trust that people knew what all the duties of a servant were, anymore, and… René wondered if he could change that at all, now that he was no longer a servant but a council member. He knew Aix would leap to support the idea, and might even be able to help explain what none of them had been able to get the King to understand….¹

Cameron could tell René was deep in thought. ‘Should I stay?’ he asked quietly. ‘Is Aix okay?’

René thought on it, and then motioned for Cameron to wait, turning to address Aix. ‘Would you like Cameron to join us, Aix? Do not be polite, answer truthfully.’

‘…Yeah, please. Hi, Cammie,’ Aix said, trying out the nickname for the first time, nervous despite Cameron having said in their chat that Aix was allowed to use it, because they were both René’s submissives, and that Aix should use it when he wanted to let Cameron know he wanted to interact on that level—and have the power dynamic of that. They may have both been submissives, but Cameron had seniority and was happy to be the ‘mentor’ rôle, understanding intimately how lost Aix felt without a clear hierarchy. Sitting next to Aix on the bed-sized sofa, Cameron nuzzled him immediately, purring, and Aix giggled, relaxing a bit before looking at the clothes.

‘Oh… oh, I see what you’re doing,’ Aix said, looking up at René.

‘Making you look more like yourself,’ Cameron said. ‘Come on, witches don’t wear suits for witching, that’s dandy behaviour.’

‘How very dare you, sir!’ Aix said in his best English accent, letting Cameron playfully wrestle him out of his clothes. ‘I am a fop of the highest court!’

René was surprised into a laugh—he wondered if Aix had perfectly imitated Gaz on purpose.

‘You need to look sluttier to be a fop,’ Cameron teased, gently pulling off the suit trousers and pretending to be surprised at the thigh high stockings underneath. ‘Well,’ he purred, ‘that’s more like it….’

Aix was startled at how velvety Cameron’s voice suddenly got, and how he was, just as suddenly, reminded that Cameron was—was male, in a way Aix never would be (well, so his mean inner voice said), was attractive. It took a while, sometimes, it took someone using a Voice….

‘…You okay, little one?’ Cameron said, as Aix went still and his eyes widened a little.

‘I just—you’re hot, I’m—realising that. It—it takes a while sometimes,’ Aix rushed to explain. ‘It’s not—I don’t notice, I just taught myself not to because it’s—it’s creepy or whatever to look at people like that all the time….’

‘I mean,’ Cameron said, but gently. ‘Do you like people looking at you like that?’ He knew the answer, but he also paid attention when Aix explained that direct contradiction of some kind of harmful thought didn’t help Aix stop and question it so much as actually phrasing it like it was a question.

‘…Oh,’ Aix said. ‘I… yes. I just think nobody does, you know. Because I’m trans, among other things,’ he said, matter-of-factly, like it didn’t hurt. But it was a fact, it didn’t help to deny that transphobia, ageism, ableism, and fatphobia existed at a baseline in most people, starting with what they found ugly.²

Cameron did not sigh, but he did gently lean down to put his forehead against Aix’s. ‘Everyone in this castle wants to fuck you—that’s how hot you are, little lamb.’

Aix was quiet as he got out of the last of his outer layer of clothes, leaving only his underwear—including the garter belt and stockings—then sat up, and started to cry. He felt Cameron and René around him immediately, and that made him just cry harder.

He had known, in the back of his mind, that something had gone wrong, that somewhere down the line he’d started believing all the horrible prejudice he’d been exposed to: that because he was disabled, trans, not white enough, fat, older than thirty, a social reject, the list was endless—that because of that, he was never going to ever be considered beautiful and therefore worth anything again, that he’d never have sex or feel pretty ever again, that it was used up and all he would have for the rest of his life were memories of when he was in his twenties, when he was in his abusive relationships, because it was too late now. And the worst part was, despite knowing all of this was unfair and not objectively true, he couldn’t ignore it or dismiss it because of the very key argument of ‘but everyone believes it and makes it true, I can’t change what society thinks of me all alone or in my lifetime’.

And he held so much of it in, he kept it all buried—when had he learned how to finally start doing that? Had it been when he was in and out of asylums and shelters, learning how little everyone cared about him, how alone he was, how hostile the world really was, how deadly it was to be vulnerable? Had it been then?

He didn’t even know what would help, at this point. He didn’t know how to scream and rail anymore.

He didn’t even know what he wanted. He’d tried college by now, just after getting off the street, and that had been just like high school, just as bad and just as much a pendulum between maddeningly boring and frustratingly hard, and full of bullying; so he’d left, before he could go into debt. The medical system had failed him when he’d done the Right Thing and asked for Professional Help, because he was too broken and his situation too unusual for anyone to know what to do with him. Maybe he’d given up then, because it seemed futile to ask for help when the professionals told you they couldn’t help you, you were too crazy for help.

Broken, abandoned, helpless.

He was tired, he was so tired of being miserable and not knowing how to make it stop. He’d tried everything. He’d tried transitioning, he’d tried asylums, he’d tried therapy, he’d tried ‘improving himself’ with school, he’d tried making friends and art and nothing was working. Nothing helped. He wanted to die just to make it go away, just to make it stop hurting so much.

He was so bored with how much it hurt to be this fucked up.

René and Cameron listened to the shatterglass raving through tears, and didn’t shush, and didn’t stop holding him, or leave his side. Catharsis was the underpinning of most kink, and it could come out at any time, not just during orgasm. From the sound of it, Aix hadn’t been able to truly express any of his pain to anyone, and feel heard, for most of his life; and every time he’d tried, it had just resulted in more pain to add to the rest.

Cameron and René were both familiar with the feeling of being too broken to heal, and frustrated because the pain was always inflicted by others, and yet they had to clean up the mess. The ache of the eldest child’s responsibility, perpetual responsibility, was not at all alien to them.

‘—I’m tired of cleaning up after everyone else but I’m not allowed to be messy! I’m tired of hurting, I’m tired of not being able to fuck, I’m tired of being in charge of everything, I’m tired of being helpless, I’m tired of being put in impossible positions, I’m tired of having a million disorders that are all untreatable and incurable, I’m tired of being in pain, I’m tired I’m tired I’M TIRED!’

René held him, and thought on what to do, how to help—and more importantly, who could help, given the people here, given what they were in the middle of doing. This was not a man ready to take the bite, but then again, who was ever ready for it? Would forcing him to wait really help? It would not solve anything causing him pain, but then again… wouldn’t it?

Aix’s fear distilled to one thing: the belief that he hadn’t the time to fix everything. It wasn’t that it was impossible, it was that it was too much for one human lifespan, he had too much to do that could not simply stop happening to attend to anything beyond.

But would it feed the great black beast that suicide was, to do it now?

As a vampire Prince, René had the right to change from his humans as he willed, that was still written; it was courtesy to put it to the Council, no more.

Still, he had reservations. He kissed Aix’s hair over and over, held him and listened, and thought.

He had been lucky. True, he had been beaten, and kidnapped, and murdered, and raped, and forced to work as a slave in a brothel; but he had also been housed, and fed, and born in a body that healed just as well as a human being was supposed to, with no lasting weakness from the injuries. He had been given the privilege of time, of immortality, of the healing and power that came from being a vampire, and that had not fixed anything, but it had given him time, and extra strength to draw upon, to fix, heal, and move on from all of it, himself.

He knew why Aix wanted immortality; even if he hadn’t before, it was obvious now, listening to the boy lance his wounds through tears. Courtesy stated that Aix had to answer, for the Council, the question of why he sought the bite; would that help him, to be able to express it? Or would it feel like yet another unjust demand?

Cameron was right here, ready and able to feed a fledgeling; and rules of hospitality stated that the King must provide food for all his guests.

Would it upend the world, René wondered, to have his Hunter be his fledge? Of course. But their world was in need of a good shaking.

Aix was quieting, trying to clear away the last of his tears with a handkerchief, hiccoughing a little. ‘I hate being relied on,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I’m tired of having to work for other people.’

‘Who says you have to?’ Cameron said.

‘Cammie, you’re Jewish, you know about tikkun olam, don’t you?’

‘Yes and? What if the Work is me? What about me? I am part of the world too, I have to make my life better before I can help others.’ He kissed Aix’s forehead. ‘It’s admirable you think that tikkun olam is the right thing, but I don’t think continuing to shoulder your burdens alone is somehow divine and just, when you would not think it just to ask of others.’

‘And no one is alone,’ René added softly, wrapping his arms around Aix. ‘But more importantly, cher petit, you are no longer alone. You have me, and my house. We all love you, more than you can ever know. You have Mademoiselle Pippin, you have Maestro Phrixus and his house. We would move mountains if it would make you smile for one moment; we would set fire to the world, if it would warm this cold inside of you.’

Aix leaned into him, letting that—forcing that to—settle over him, not letting himself bat it away with a joke or dismissal.

‘The child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth,’ Aix said, softly. The proverb struck deep chords the first time he’d read it. René’s words had reminded him of it.

‘Perhaps the village should burn, then,’ René said, but not lightly. When Aix looked up at him, startled, René’s smile was every bit the gentle monster he was. ‘Mon sorcier, I am a monster, remember? You said that was the comforting thing about me.’

‘Yeah…’ Aix said, ‘Yeah, you’re right. I don’t have to… to set myself on fire to keep everyone warm,’ he finished. ‘I’ve been… I’ve been assuming that I’m obligated to do all this work, to follow other people’s idea of good. And… why?’ he asked himself mostly. ‘Why,’ he said again. He didn’t have an answer, just nebulous fear, just peer pressure: conform conform conform. But when he had conformed, he’d only gotten more work, more invisible, had gotten so injured he was disabled. There was no reward in any of that.

He remembered the moment, in his childhood, when he’d realised nothing he did mattered, that his actions would never prevent others causing him pain. It was a very clear memory. He called it his You Want Me To Be A Villain? Fine, I’ll Be A Villain moment.

Hadn’t he always been called a Bad Influence? Well, why was he suddenly feeling obligated to not be? That was someone else. That was someone telling him if he was just Good Enough, he wouldn’t get abused. But that wasn’t true. He’d done that for years and it was never true, it was an excuse, a way to blame him for the choice of another.

‘You’re a villain, Aix,’ Cameron said.

‘And let me be a villain,’ Aix breathed, feeling galvanised, feeling a renewed discovery of his bearings.

Now, he had a heading again, he thought, giddy, and started to get dressed, pulling on the black velvet leggings that clung to his thighs and hips, stopping just after his knees, the fly-zipper’s teeth glinting with rhinestones, drawing attention to his cunt, to the fact that the zipper bisected the leggings entirely. The shirt was next, simple, long-sleeved, clinging spiderweb lace. And then the necklaces and pendants—he had so many, gifts from everyone in Wolf Castle Towers—pendants of bone, pendants of feathers, necklaces of shells and glass and gemstones, carved with protection, with thanks, with belonging. He put them on, feeling them clack and rattle against one another, tangible signs of his witchery; silver bangles clinking on his wrists, every time he moved, stamped and worked over with meticulous care; rings, comfortingly heavy pewter worked into tentacular and araneiform shapes, set with moonstone, amethyst, dark pearls, fordite—more gifts.

‘Would it be less stressful to just leave your glasses off?’ Cameron asked, but carefully. He didn’t wear glasses, but he knew Aix had trouble with being looked at, with faces. If he couldn’t see them at all….

‘You know what,’ Aix said, ‘Yeah. It’s not like they help, in this situation.’

‘And your eyes are so much bigger without them,’ René murmured, enchanted by them. He had seen it before, but it was always surprising.

‘Hey, could you draw a spiral on my cheek, under one eye?’

‘Of course,’ René said, understanding what Aix meant. Clowns could change their Mask, but there were also markings that never changed—a pierrot’s tears, a harlequin’s slapstick, a drag queen’s fan… and a nightwatcher’s spirals. Whatever Aix knew about them, he wanted to evoke it. René used the same angular lines he had seen on nightwatch spiral markings, weilding the fine little eyeliner brush. ‘Why the mark of the nightwatch?’

‘The clowns themselves call them “Guardian”,’ Aix said—carefully, so he wouldn’t mess up René’s efforts. ‘If I am taking up the mantle of a guardian, then I want to let them know—in their language.’

‘With all the monstrous connotation that carries,’ Cameron said.

‘Mhm,’ Aix said, holding still.

‘Even without that foundation, you are definitely pale enough to pass as a clown,’ Cameron said, tilting his head as he studied Aix’s face. ‘…Sorry,’ he added, knowing it weighed heavily on Aix, a reminder of how long he’d been sickly and stuck indoors.

‘Eh,’ Aix said, just as René finished. ‘It’s true.’ He wished the shivery pleasure he felt when René put his hand on Aix’s chin, gently tilting his face this way and that, was visible.

‘Good boy,’ René said softly, releasing him. ‘Come, do you still want to sit on my lap?’

‘Yes, please,’ Aix said immediately, as he followed René out of the room. He glanced back at Cameron and, in a flash of nerve, said, ‘Cammie should come too. I want him to come.’

Cameron, startled, looked at René for a cue—to his surprise, René’s expression was clearly considering the matter.

‘Yes, he should,’ René said finally.

‘Come on, Cammie. You don’t have to talk, that’s okay,’ Aix said, offering his hand. Cameron took it.

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