“Mommy?” Ellis echoes with furrowed eyebrows, his lips quirking into something of a frown as he watches the little girl return her dirty thumb to her mouth. “Why th’heck am Ah mommy?”

The thumb pops free with a slurp and she says in obvious exasperation, “Cus you don’t have a beard.”

“Ah got stubble!” Ellis objects, giving his face a scratch in illustration, his troubled gaze going to Keith trying to refrain from sniggering. “Jesus,” grumbles the brunette moodily, swinging his AK-47 back behind his shoulder on its strap so he can lift the toddler from her perch on a battered couch, “Even lil’ kids think Ah’m th’lady.”

Keith reloads his rifle in preparation to leave the saferoom, head tilted slightly to listen to the garbled snarls outside in the semi-darkness of evening. “His name’s Ellis,” he tells the little girl, hoping to console his boyfriend, “An’ he’s m’BOYfriend.”

“Wife,” the girl corrects stubbornly, her nose crinkling under the frazzled drape of her over-long bangs, the greasy blonde strands immediately tucked behind her ears by Ellis.

“Let’er think wut she wants,” says Ellis with a shrug and a sigh, “Folks usually do. An’ she’s jus’ uh baby anyhow.”

“M’four,” huffs the toddler in his arms, and Ellis grins a little wider, his earlier irritation bottoming out with affection.  

Being a few inches tall afforded Keith a substantial amount of leeway in life, both socially and physically. He could, for example, perch on his friend Dave’s shoulder instead of having to walk anywhere himself; likewise, when he didn’t feel like dealing with someone, it was just a matter of slipping behind a knickknack to avoid them. Simple tasks for others – like fixing a bowl of cereal – were daring adventures for Keith, who’d learned dozens of tricks and feats to keep his independence even in a world that was far too big for him. He was injured and lost often, and had once been forced to kill his little brother’s cat before it could kill him, but he was resilient, surviving every accident and poor decision with renewed determination to succeed.

Relationships, on the other hand, were a little more complicated, for obvious reasons. He’d had several girlfriends, a fiance he’d then left at the altar, and dated his former best friend for awhile, but nothing had panned out for him; and while being miniscule was a novelty at first, it posed some embarrassing problems down the road that Keith hadn’t yet come up with a suitable fix for.

Ellis, however, didn’t seem to mind the awkward sex life and the lack of warm body to hold in the night; in fact, he remained upbeat even when Keith’s risky behavior went afoul and nearly got him killed trying to climb the coffee pot to initiate it himself. Unlike lovers of the past, Ellis wasn’t prone to hovering protectively; any help he offered was done casually, followed up by a change of subject when Keith wasn’t happy about his independence being questioned. Further, Ellis seemed to have fun with Keith’s size, crafting boats for the bathtub and meticulously constructing a model car with a functioning engine that Keith helped tinker with before being able to drive. Child-like in his wonder, Ellis was a different breeze from all the others.

At night, when Keith stretched out on the impossibly broad surface of a pillow with his tiny blanket, Ellis would cuddle close but not too close, eyes half-lidded and full of happiness Keith could never get used to seeing glimmer in his direction.  

Kendra hadn’t spent much time questioning her sexuality in highschool; it had simply occurred to her that while she wasn’t pulled towards any girls in particular, she wasn’t put off by the concept either. So though she dated men, she kept an open mind towards women as well. She wasn’t particularly surprised to end up with one, little Ellis – with her thick drape of curls, big gray sky eyes, gorgeous bowed lips quirking in bashful little smiles, and stocky body host to curves Kenda was greedy about mapping out with her hands – proving herself to be quite the catch after the awkward phase had dwindled a little. Kendra was happy to help Ellis reconsider her own sexuality, too; strangled whimpers and moans filling their nights with music Kendra rapidly found addicting.

It was easy to get Ellis started; all she had to do was tweak the girl’s nipple through her shirt and she was buckling to her knees, begging for Kendra to give her a taste. And as far as pussy-eating went, with a little practice Ellis was outdoing anyone Kendra had been with, eager tongue and pretty lips bringing the redhead over to bliss with natural talent the older woman was a little sad had been wasted on cock in the past. Likewise, Kendra had Ellis’s number in bed and dialed it often, reducing the brunette to a mess of buzzing nerves and reverent thank you’s.

Though Kendra had her hands full when it came to babysitting. Ellis, despite bearing the scars of survival, was a complete idiot when it came to men, forcing Kendra to frequently step in when a friendly guy at the bar became a handsy guy; customers, too, enchanted by the concept of an all-female mechanic crew, were a problem, Ellis too gullible to notice when she was being objectified. It was a full time job keeping her out of trouble, and Kendra took it on with flair. Nothing beat telling some arrogant asshole to shove off her girl.

And Ellis hadn’t been the picture-perfect example of a house wife, but her cooking improved quickly, and by nature she was a spunky, get’er-done kinda gal who blew through chores quickly to get to the fun that followed. This meshed well with Kendra who wasn’t fond of lazy people and but WAS fond of having her meals prepared and served by her little dish of a girlfriend. Likewise, they mixed well with the fun that followed, Ellis as prone as Kendra to crazy ideas and impromptu feats that usually ended up in drunken giggling and a hospital visit.

Kendra hadn’t spent much time questioning her relationship with her little shortcake; it had simply occurred to her that like her thirst for life, her thirst for Ellis was strong, bright, and a little dangerous – just the way she liked it.

[Kind of a sequel to this.]

Keith isn’t intending to watch the race – it’s a Monday and he’s an entire weekend behind on sleep, show the next night burning on his brain – but something draws him to pick up the remote when he stretches out in bed, shrouded in the blessed darkness of his own bedroom for the first time in months. The constant sweep of multi-colored cars around the track is visually soothing, brief montages about the drivers now and then doing little to break his gradually drifting into bliss – until –

At first it’s just a scuffle on the track, a couple of cars skimming too close and scuffing up logos, but then a car Keith doesn’t recognize clips the back of El’s and Ellis smacks into another car, scraping along the side until he drops free – and is immediately struck by a third as his car spins slightly, tires dragging black across the pavement. A fourth car hits him dead-on and Ellis’s pitches over onto its side and rolls on its back like a flung turtle, rocking slightly before the windshield gives out.

Keith’s sitting up and grabbing his leather jacket and cellphone before the program cuts to commercial. His brain forces him to take a gulping breath when he slams the front door behind himself, dizziness and nausea staggering his steps as the brightness of daylight stings tears in his eyes; maybe. He calls the head of the pit crew as he gets in his truck, phone shoved on his shoulder as he drives to the airport.

Waiting for his flight, he watches the clips again on Youtube, and finds an update on a news website of Ellis being pulled from the wreckage and placed on a stretcher; he can’t tell how hurt the man in, thick jumpsuit and a plethora of paramedics obscuring Keith’s view. Sarah calls, then Nick, and Keith loses his voice entirely before his plane is boarding.

His manager calls halfway through the flight to offer her condolences and make sure he’s going to be on his plane to Baltimore tonight for their next show. Keith tells her no and hangs up.

No one he talks - rasps - to has any answers about Ellis’s condition, but Keith’s going to get them himself in a few hours.

Ellis sits on the bank, clumsy fingers jabbing themselves with the needle on every other awkwardly slow stitch he makes. The white-feathered beauties on the lake’s black surface loiter without taking notice of his efforts, occasionally dunking into the water in search of a morsel before the blue hue in the sky calls for sleep. His tongue protrudes from the corner of his mouth, the slight narrowing of his gaze the only emotion visible in his expressions after two long years without a trickle of sound from his lips. Better not to smile or even frown when his tongue is caged by obligation; a single word and the one swan he’s prone to watching will remain cursed forever.

The swan in question moves closer to the bank, an unnaturally blue eye fixed on Ellis’s silent ministrations. Its graceful neck unfurls as its head lifts, flat feet coming up onto the grassy slope of the bank, its rotund body shaking free of water with an abrupt shiver and a soft, warbled noise like a purr and a hiccup combined.

Ellis greets it only with a nod, returning to his work.

When Keith steps closer, it is on bare human feet, his gait unbalanced as he comes to stand beside his lover. He sits a little heavily, knees raising to obscure some of his nudity, and leans into Ellis for warmth. He’s forgotten how to talk, Ellis thinks, without anyone to talk to; or maybe it hurts him to talk like it hurts Ellis not to. They don’t look at each other anymore, just watch the stars emerge on the vast ink spill of the sky and try not to think too much about magic and misery.

When warm skin is replaced by sleek feathers, Ellis lifts a hand to pet his companion’s long neck, careful not to smear some of his bloodied fingertips on the pure snow white.

It shouldn’t be long now – maybe a few more months of Dave watching him questioningly as though expecting him to break, his mother petting his curls and mourning his muteness, Abby wishing for her son without closure Ellis could provide if only he could talk. A few more months spent running from jokes that might trick his laughter free and biting his tongue on the urge to share a story. A few more months of sleeping alone with the window open to the lake and the soft grumbled hums of the swans in their gaggles.

A few more months.  

Keith is exhausted when he finally falls into his hotel bed, reeking of smoke and sweat and that airy scent that lingers on him after a night on an open stage. His fingers fucking burn, knuckles locking up even as he cracks them a few times, and he moves to the comfort of a couple of pain pills and a swig of JD for consolation. He rasps out a groan and rolls onto his sore back, licking chapped lips when he plucks the remote from the bedside table and clicks on the television.

Lucky for him, the news is replaying clips from the race, and while Ellis didn’t win, he brought home enough points to keep placing high. Keith tucks his cellphone to his ear and calls his boyfriend, scratching at his beard as it rings twice before the brunette’s tired but cheerful “hey, honey” greets him with warmth. “How’d th’show go? Ah looked awn Youtube,” Ellis adds with a tired chuckle, “But nobody put anythang up yet.”

“It’s th’midwest,” Keith grumbles, aware that his voice sounds like shit, just above a wet whisper. “Dead crowd with lighters.” He finally gets the strength to kick out of his boots, unzipping his pants for a bit of air as he gives himself a deep scratch. “Seen Andrews ridin’ yer ass awn that last couple sweeps.”

Ellis actually laughs. “Got me missin’ yew,” he jokes, and Keith melts at how easy it is to make Ellis happy even from a thousand miles away. Though their careers take them states apart, it’s never been difficult to get a smile out of his Nascar star – though not seeing the results makes him ache. “So Ah figgur Ah’ll git tuh see yew next week,” Ellis adds thoughtfully, “If Ah fly out tuh California tuh meet yuh? Been three months since Ah seen y’all live anyhow.”

Keith groans and closes his eyes. “Damn, I’d like that.”  

It’s a little blue pup tent erected in the corner of Ellis’s back yard, the cramped space inside piled up with blankets and pillows; they put it up together, so the thin metal rail running along the top is slanted and the entire tent leans to the right. Inside, battery-powered lantern chases back the shadows as Ellis snuggles closer to his best friend, gray eyes impossibly big on his face. “Keith?” he asks in the softest of whines, pawing at the already slumbering redhead, “Keith, yew awake?”

The eight year old cracks an eye open, irritation bunching his brows. “El, go tuh sleep.”

Ellis settles down again, staring at the bright yellow burn of the lantern. Minutes pass, then: “Keith, Ah got uh question.”

“Ugh.” Keith shoves up onto an elbow, glowering at his best friend in blatant frustration. “Wut is it, Ellis?”

“How long yuh reckon ‘ferever’ lasts?”

The hard line of Keith’s pout melts into a soft-edged frown. “Iunno, Ellis – don’t it mean never-endin’?”

“Katie’s got uh bracelet,” says Ellis, rolling onto his side to better see Keith in the blare of light, his fingers petting his own wrist in illustration, “Thah’s got BBF awn it – bes’ friends ferever.”

Keith’s nose wrinkles and he snorts. “Sounds girly.”

“Ah want one,” Ellis confesses, but the words aren’t accompanied by the habitual blush and shrug the boy has trademarked. Instead, his voice is firm, almost thoughtful, exhaustion after a long day of tumbling around in the back yard drawing his eyes half-lidded and lowering still.

Keith considers, then nods slowly. “Ah’ll make yuh one. Go tuh sleep,” he adds shortly, dragging his blanket higher.

“Okay,” Ellis agrees, and reaches out to turn the lantern down until they’re both shrouded in blue-domed darkness.  

It’s always the jocks, Ellis notices, that get under Keith’s skin. Handsome, bulky, popular, and always laughing, their very presence seems to irritate the redhead; it’s often that Ellis has to distract Keith with a story or a question to keep useless fights from breaking out on a daily basis. But some circumstances slip through his fingers, the hyena pack of football players finally crawling too deep in Keith’s skin to pull him back from his temper, and Ellis comes across them duking it out in the hall or some parking lot.

Wednesday afternoon was no different, Ellis grumbling to himself over a poor grade on an Art History pop quiz when the familiar chants of “fight, fight!” catch his ears and he’s off down the corridor of lockers like a bullet. Keith is naturally in the center of it, scrapping with two seniors at once, knuckles visibly bloody and his lip split open down the center. There’s a bruise on his temple shaped like a half-crescent moon, and Ellis has a moment to think it’s pretty before he’s shoving his way into the circle of bystanders to get to him.

“Keith,” he hisses, grabbing the older boy’s arm, “Yuh gottuh sto—“

“Look, it’s his girlfriend,” chuckles one of the assholes, wiping his mouth, “Go ahead, faggots, go awn an’ run home.”

“Say hi tuh yer sister for me,” coos his friend with a slight pump of his hips; laughter titters behind him like a gaggle of talking birds.  

“If yer mouth ain’t too full uh dick!” someone in the crowd goads, and everyone begins laughing again.

Keith looks at Ellis and Ellis looks at Keith.

Ellis’s backpack drops to the tile floor as they both move forward with raised fists. 

“Didjuh see how much air yuh got?” bubbles Keith as he perches at El’s bedside, eyeing over the brunette’s bandaging to assure the bored-looking nurse properly replaced the last bled-through coil. Ellis grins and leans back, folding his arms behind his head as he nods for Keith to continue his recounting. “Sheeeit, Ellis, yuh mustuh flew like thirty feet up!”

“That so?” chuckles the brunette contentedly, his eyes drifting briefly to the fingers attentively checking over his wrappings. “Hey, Keith,” he says after a moment, “Close th’curtain?”

Keith blinks  and drops his hands, easing up from the mattress’s edge to draw the folded fabric out on its noisy ceiling rollers. “This good?” he asks to be certain, grinning in pleasure when Ellis nods his approval.

“C’mere,” purrs Ellis, giving his morphine drip another firm click before setting aside the dial, drawing the blankets aside. Getting the hint, Keith blushes profusely, but licks his lips as he crawls back onto the bed. 

[Slightly different scenario because Keith’s an overprotective guy and I don’t think it’d get past the slightest hint of trouble XD]

Ellis can taste the heady pungency of the guy’s chewing tobacco on his breath when he comes too close, see the dark gleam in his eyes as his thin lips turn up in a smirk that crawls fingers of discomfort up Ellis’s spine; his stubble rasps over El’s as he leans over, whispering “hey” in the brunette’s ear like it’s a dirty promise and –

Ellis shoves him away immediately.

“Get th’hell off me, man!” he snarls loudly, and Keith steps out of the office to see Ellis trying to block the guy’s grabbing hands from taking hold of his hips. “Ah got uh goddamn boyfriend—“

Keith’s fist hits Colin across the jaw with an audible thump, snapping his head to the side; Colin’s eyebrow rips open on the corner of some metal shelving, but Keith strikes him again, grabbing the slack material of his coveralls to haul him away from the shelf and hit him a third time in the face.

Ellis almost stops him, but there’s something in Keith’s body language that halts his tongue. He steps back instead and lets the anger build and swell in every hard punch, in the rough shove that topples Colin to the cement floor and allows Keith to kick him in the ribs. Blood-blackened bruises form like settling butterflies stretching their wings, and Colin dribbles blood as he blurts, “Stop.”

“Keith,” Ellis says finally. The redhead ceases movement, panting hard as he glowers at the man on the floor until Colin shuffles away and leaves the shop. 

Savannah is in trouble, but…

“This is jus’ shameful,” Ellis grumbles as he shoves a hand into his back pocket, removing a stout wand topped with a heart that glows with his touch; he sweeps it upwards, calling forth a stream of light from the weapon that courses around his figure in blue-tinged ripples. Consumed in the glow, he raises his arms above his head, watching as his own clothes deteriorate into tendrils of light, color crawling over his skin in its place as aqua gloves form up to his elbows. Likewise, his t-shirt and jeans burst free, immediately making room for the blossom of a short, pleated skirt and a uniform top that billow in the continued gust. Boots slide up to his thighs, accented – like the rest of his outfit – with hearts along the sides.

As the gust of wind slows, he yanks at the skirt with visible frustration, the blush on his cheeks only darkening further when he notices Keith balancing precautiously on his own heeled boots a few feet away, cursing venemently as he attempts to cover his scarred stomach with his school girl top’s too-short material. The sound of destruction continues, low-rumbled roars backgrounded by the smoldering crumble of falling buildings.

“Who fights monsters in this shit?” Keith complains loudly, pointing at the hearts dangling from his ears, “I look like uh drag queen.”

“Th’makeup looks good,” Ellis notes thoughtfully, and Keith pitches his own wand at Ellis’s head. 

“Tch, soulmates,” mutters Keith as he settles before his television, lanky legs parted wide in front of him as he settles back on his elbows with a soft huff of irritation. The screen is host to nothing but static as midnight crawls across the clock, the redhead snorting and letting his head fall back in exasperation. “Who believes that crap anyhow?”

The static queues out abruptly and Keith looks up to see a paled-out visual of a brunette shrouded in darkness, the camera drawing rapidly into a close-up as the boy looks up and waves excitedly. “Welcome!” he says brightly, the image losing its fuzzy state to instead display a clear picture – of Ellis Hart. Keith grunts and sits up abruptly. “Mah name’s Ellis, thanks fer tunin’ in! Tuhnight Ah’m gonnuh go th’distance an’ find mahself that special sumbody – ‘er die tryin’!” Laughter bubbles from his mouth as he reaches up, taking hold of a rope that drapes itself from somewhere off-screen. He winks as he expects to be lifted away, but an indistinct murmur stops him. “Uh-wha’? Too heavy?” he pauses and tilts his head before grinning wide, “Well awrigh’!”

Keith inches closer to the screen as Ellis sheds his clothing, dragging his shirt over his head and kicking out of his boots and pants; entirely naked – and noticeably aroused – save for his socks, he plucks his hat off and drops it onto the pile, laughing. “Guess Ah’m barin’ it awl fer mah special sumone!” He turns, lifting a foot to peel his sock free, the curve of his naked ass taking up a majority of the camera’s view as he switches feet. He wiggles his butt slightly, still giggling. “Is mah special sumone watchin’~? Ah hope so!”

Keith swallows convulsively.

“Better? Okay!” Ellis cheers, taking hold of the rope once more, “Away Ah go~!”

The screen blacks out, and the phone rings

“Ah recorded it,” says Dave in a monotone, “Do yew want me tuh e-mail it tuh yew?”  

“Ah think here’s safe,” says Ellis as he crouches into crawling through the stout cave’s mouth, shuffling back into its rock-shadowed depth as Keith moves to follow. It’s dark, the woods pattering with persistent rain, their shallow cave the only visible reprieve in the seemingly endless forest teaming with wild Pokemon. They sit together, knees draw up to their chests as they listen to the distant roll of thunder with hands held between them.

“Shit,” grumbles Keith miserably, the ten year old rubbing at his nose with his palm, “I wanted tuh catch uh Beedrill ‘fore we got tuh Atlanta!”

“We’ll keep lookin’ when th’storm lets up,” Ellis offers, shifting a little closer to his friend. “Why don’t yew let Charmander out, so it ain’t s’cold in here?”

The Pokeball Keith plucks from his belt swells in his hand, a quick tap of his thumb over its center releasing his first Pokemon in a burst of white light. Charmander blinks at the change of light, huddling back towards them immediately as he spies the rain, tail held aloft in a crackle of warm flames. Ellis pets the creature’s nose and smiles.  

“This world’s amazin’,” Ellis whispers as his fingers drift over the glitter-crusted bark of a tree, its broad plum branches feathering out into vividly crimson leaves that rustle in the slight breeze. The grass is green, lush and thickly carpeting the forest floor, but the plants that rise from it are a rainbow of obscure colors, flowers blooming in rich golds with a dazzle of light from their cores.

Keith thinks it’s more like the gay fantasy of some guy on acid, but he doesn’t comment, stepping through the underbrush to have a look at the rippled waters of a pool gathered between a few trees. His reflection shows his varied clothing – a white tunic and green leggings that clash horrendously with his hair, white boots drawn up to his knees – and as Ellis steps over, his similar outfit comes into view as well.

A scream echoes through the woods, and immediately Ellis draws the sword at his side, looking to Keith before the redhead moves to lead the way through the trees they’ve been exploring for less than an hour now. When they break into a cautious jog, it takes only minutes to reach the shout’s source – a young woman attempting to fight off a pair of masked men, her angry kicking and shoving only succeeding in irritating the men into grabbing her by her hair.

Ellis stumbles out of the underbrush first, unwilling to wait even a moment for strategy, hefting his sword across the broad back of one of the attackers. Blood pours free in a rush of black-tinged ruby, shrieks of pain and anger carrying louder than the woman’s screams had; Ellis backs up as the man slumps but brandishes a steel ax regardless of his agony, the curve of its blade sweeping just inches from Ellis’s chest.

Keith breaks through the trees, yanking his own sword up to fend off the ax, a quick whip of it across the man’s throat ending the fight in a gurgle of blood. The woman topples back onto the grass with the body, and the other attacker flees into the woods. Keith stares at her, lips parting.

“Sheeit!” gasps Ellis, hands on his knees as he pants, “Yew okay, miss?”

“Emma?” Keith whispers, and Ellis looks up sharply.

“I used to be called that,” says the redhead on the grass, the vivid blue of dress stained with her enemy’s blood. She raises up on her elbows, peering between the two of them in panted confusion. “Before…”

[I did heroin instead because I’m more knowledgeable of coming down from it than coke. ;u; Sorries.] 

Ellis isn’t sure which is worse – the daylight hours he spends trying to keep Keith in the house, or the night that stretches sleepless and dark in the hours after. In the day, Keith is angry, prone to breaking things and clawing at his own arms when he’s frustrated, accusing Ellis of only loving him if he’s perfect; in the night, he’s jittery, insisting on feeling itchy as he kicks and churns on the bed, abandoning and thieving the blankets in an endless cycle. They take half a dozen baths a day that all begin in blessed relaxation in silence and all end in Keith punching something – the tile wall is now cracked in several places, and both of Ellis’s eyes are black. All Keith can eat is crackers and even that he tends to heave up, snarling and animal-like in his cycled pain and nausea. In days the bruises and scratches fade and Keith is weeping and twitching instead, pleading for a single hit just to soothe him for awhile and he’ll quit, he’ll stop forever, please, Ellis, please.

Some afternoons, Ellis’s eyes are bloodshot and fringed with tears when he shoves Keith’s struggling frame down and cuffs him to the bed; others, he is grimly unemotional, deathly silent as Keith accuses him of cruelty and says he doesn’t want to be with him anymore. Those are the hardest hours, where Keith wrenches his wrists raw and screams at Ellis until he’s hoarse and sobbing, curling in on himself in surrender.

Even when the pain stops, Keith isn’t better; he’ll never be better, skittish of shadowed parks and men in hoodies who eye him thoughtfully as he passes. He’s a junkie, rotted veins still blistered in his arms, and Ellis can see the struggle still in him an entire year later when the shakes aren’t as frequent and his detoxing is but a nightmare from far away. The question of what is worse is no longer how they define their days and nights – but instead a question of what is more dangerous. Everything is temptation but Keith resents being leashed too tightly, and Ellis must choose which battles to take on and which to trust the redhead to fight himself.

But the bruises now are lovebites, and the arguments are about new paint in the living room and who forgot to feed the dog; at night, the blankets remain firmly in place, their bodies cuddled together in blessed harmony that isn’t interrupted by jitters or violence.

Ellis hopes that’s enough.