one man guy.

[star studded]

The pulse and ring of the phone he kept in the apartment startled Harlen, who was in the midst of packing away records in their proper order. Sheets of music had been organized as best as he could manage, tucked away in two black folders and stashed in with the priceless collection. Clothes were folded and half packed, half still waiting to be put away, the remnants of Paris being left behind still left in their perfect condition. Posters, furniture, novels, piano -- they all stayed.

Curiously, he reached for the phone and pulled it from its stand, a button pressed and a line jumped to life. No one knew this number. The phone was rarely used, and when it was, it was to call out rather than dial in. There was a static-laden silence on the end before the prophet stretched out legs and cleared his throat to alert the other person that he was indeed there.

"Hello?"

"Thank God you answered. I thought I was going to get the professor. He hates me, you know." The voice was low, effeminate and familiar, and Harlen cringed at the sound of it.

"Go away, Moira."

"A trip to Paris without me, I'm shattered, Prophet, really I am. After all the memories we shared, all the times we spent. Do you remember? Did you take him to our cafe? Did you show him our favorite paintings at the Lourve?"

"Really, you sound more like a jilted ex-girlfriend than the psycho .. whatever it is you are. Rogue crusader, religious warrior. How did you know we were here?" He asked, crawling to feet and pacing the living room in circles.

"One day, Prophet. One day you'll understand. Had a vision, did you? Bet you're still beating your head about it. I can easily come and give you a hand when you get back to New York. Looking for a place?" She offered. On the other end, Moira was hunched over her feet, knees bent as she sat on the flat of her bed. A paint dipped brush was flitting over toenails, a modest blue color for a winter scheme. Harlen could hear her bracelets jangling, the click of her earring against the phone. He could see her, apathetic and careless, but still able to tug at strings nonetheless.

"No."

"Liar."

"Harpie."

"Queen."

"Schizo."

"This is childish. I'm wondering why I even called you." Moira sighed, exasperated. The paintbrush was dipped back into blue and she moved to balance the phone between ear and shoulder, fingernails next on the list. "Oh! I remember now. You're coming back to New York, hn?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Don't start that again, Moira." He warned, peeking into the next room to ensure the conversation wasn't being listened in on. With the coast clear, he continued on. "Whether or not I'm coming back, I'm not helping you. And I don't need your help. So if you would please leave me alone, that would be much appreciated."

"Did you hear what happened to the Messenger and his wife?" It sounded like the beginning of a bad Biblical joke, but Harlen tensed at the very reference. He had half a mind to hand the phone over to someone who could scold and scathe with words far more effectively than he. The prophet wasn't precise enough. "It's sad, really. But, it's a sign of sorts, don't you think?"

"That has nothing to do with this. If it did, I would have seen it coming far more in advance. I would have.. seen starting points and signals, I would have known what it meant. It had nothing to do with us. They have nothing to do with us, Moira."

"Once upon a time.."

"Stop it." He urged, a hand smearing down his face before he sank into the comfort of the couch. Cushions caved and he pulled feet up, knees pressed against his chest in a childish effort to get himself compact and small.

"Once upon a time, there was a boy. And this boy decided it would be fun to disregard all he had worked for."

"Knock it off, Moira." Eyes closed. All he had to do was hang up the phone. All he had to do was press the button, turn the ringer off and throw the damn thing out the window.

"..so the boy did. And he ran off with another boy. A very strange, enchanted boy." Old lyrics were sung out, though Moira was no Nat King Cole. "And in doing so, dragged two separate worlds closer together than the Messenger's appearance ever could. You know. You drew pictures of it, you had your visions, and if you'd just ... stop being so stubborn, you'd do what you had to do to figure the rest out! He will find him, Harlen. He will find the Messenger, and neither of you will know your heads from your asses when it comes to what to do about it."

"When? If you're so smart, Moira, if you know how to solve this all with your magic fucking wand, why don't you just do it? You don't need an army, you don't need me, and you don't need Asher. His name is Asher."

"So stuck in the humanity of it all. That's your flaw. You see yourself as a human with an ability rather than a prophet with humanity." She tsked at him with a click of her tongue and Harlen felt himself inwardly lurch at her scolding. She had an ability to make him feel small, helpless and wrong. She had the power of a condescending older sibling, convincing and cruel.

"I'm hanging up now."

"Enjoy your flight. And think, prophet. You have a brain for a reason. Tell the Messenger I say hello when you see him. And send the professor my love." She chirped. Angrily, Harlen's thumb slammed down on the button and the phone was clunked to the coffee table.

Signs. There were signals and signs and clues all around him, and he cursed himself for having the inability to pick them out.

[star studded]

<center>Harlen : Essential
written using the one word/fifteen minutes method</center>

I feel like I'm going out of my mind. I've spent a good hour in this old hotel room and already, just look at the place. It's empty as shit. There's nothing here. Granted, everything is where I left it, and everything is still mine, my record player, my albums, my television channels right where I left them. I feel uncomfortable. This, of course, is a strange feeling, because I've never felt uncomfortable in a room like this before. I've been able to make due with what I have. It's always been my talent. I've never needed anything. Maybe access to a piano and a good book now and then, but that's about it. I don't need a bed, I can sleep on the floor. I've slept in chairs. On the ground. On the shoulders of strangers. I don't need food, I can go another couple hours without eating anything, and then, with low blood sugar and a delirious look, I'll trudge myself into somewhere and order something to fill me up until I decide to starve myself again. I don't need shoes, in fact, I hate them. I don't need opera. I've got all my favorites memorized, and I can play them in my head. I don't need television, I lived four years or so without it. I thought I needed Moira, but I proved to myself that no, I don't, and I'm the better for it. Nothing has ever been absolutely the one thing I need to get by. I don't need parents. I don't need a job. I don't need friends. I've never had any of the above. Permanent, anyway. I've had foster homes and school buddies, college roommates, but fuck if I know where they all are today.

An hour. One hour in this fucking room and I'm going, nope. No. It's not right. Something's missing.

What the fuck is wrong with me? It's Paris. It has to be Paris. I always get this way after coming back from Paris. I miss it. I still feel it in my bones, tucked under my skin, waiting there. I can smell the scent of the bakery below our flat, I can feel the keys of my piano--

Wait. Did I just say our flat? My flat. Fuck, sorry. Freudian slip or something. Anyway, where was I? Oh. Yeah, Paris. It's the only place I've ever really felt at home, and completely myself. It's my own little sanctuary. I mean, I would have stayed there, but if I had, I'm afraid the whole allure of it would have worn off. I'd be there by myself with no one to show all the sights to, and what fun is that? What am I going to do, go out on the town and hang out with Reynard and all his fucking club-going buddies? Ha. Unlikely. So here I am, back in New York which is covered with three feet of fucking snow, I'll have you know. If you go outside, all you can see is white. It makes me miss the mild weather of Europe. Nothing there ever freezes. It's just early winter weather all winter long, chilly and windy until spring blossoms again.

It's not Paris. Fuck. If it was Paris, I'd be on a plane right now. No. It's not Paris. It's something much more than Paris. It's something with hands and eyes and a perfect fucking mouth, and glasses, and stupid fashion sense and a quirky taste in music and a new love for the absinthe that I'm sticking in a bag with some clothes and a few records before I pull my shoes and coat on and try and maneuver the subway system in this weather.

I don't need Paris to feel comfortable. It would be nice, and I'm sure it would help. There's one thing that's slowly becoming essential, and it scares the shit out of me. I don't want to be dependent. I don't want to need this. I don't want to become addicted.

Whatever. I'll worry about it when I get to his apartment.

[star studded]

I miss Paris. When he comes home, I think I'll tell him first, how amazing his book was. Second, that he absolutely has to call a publisher. And third, that our first order of business after settling into our new apartment, will be to pack our bags and head back to Paris.

I thrive on change. Changes of scenery are incredible ways to drag out inspiration, I've discovered, stick me in a new place and I can write you a million songs that are nothing like I've ever written before. I love the way Paris looks after having not seen it in awhile. I love the way America makes me feel urban, gritty and angry when I come back to it, and I pound out new songs without a piano. Just in my brain, because the piano keys are locked away in storage and I've holed myself up in some man's apartment, far from my own sense of home and slowly latching onto his.

It's sickening really. Thinking back on the way I behaved yesterday in the privacy of his office, I'm constantly second guessing myself and beating up my head for being so stupid. I broke the rule. I broke my promise. I promised no questions, no analysis, no thinking too much. I'm worried that I'm turning into someone I am not, and therefore someone less desirable. Worry always leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. It turns heavy and leaden, and I find it difficult to eat. I'm rarely, if ever, in a state of anxiety, but when I am, it's one that sticks with me until I find the root of it and carve it out with something.

I never had a problem with being alone, and now I find myself staring at clocks and rereading pages of a handwritten novel that I've already read twice over since he put it in my hands this morning. I didn't stop for breaks the first time. The second time, I skimmed, mostly. And now I'm going back and preening over certain parts that I found especially ironic, or funny, or memorable, parts that I know he pulled out of real life. Parts of me. Parts of him. Parts of us together.

I need to stop using that word. It makes the weight in my stomach sink further, not because I don't want one word to encompass two people. But because I'm not used to it. I'm completely unaccustomed to the way that all of these sorts of things are supposed to work. I realize now, which is so very typical of me to do -- understand things after the fact and a moment too late, that it wasn't him I was questioning.

It was me.

I need to know whether I have the capacity to do this. I need to know if I'm the sort of person who can cement myself in this lifestyle, adhere to all of these norms. I don't want norms. I don't want a joint bank account and a car that we both share, I don't want nights where no words are spoken between us, I don't want to get annoyed by that thing that he does with his glasses when he's reading or writing, or just sitting there and staring off into space. I want us to always be living on the edge of things, straddling them. One foot in America and one in France. One in the emotional, one in the physical. One foot in this world, one in the visions. One in stability and one in recklessness. One in the obvious confidence that the other will stay, and one in the gripping fear that the other will go.

I have a tendency to walk out, just to make someone tell me not to leave. It was the most thrilling part of leaving Moira, that. The way her face crumbled and she begged me to stay like we were starcrossed lovers trapped in some tragic farewell. I don't know if I'm guaranteed that anymore.

I was questioning myself yesterday when I asked him if he was sure. I wasn't asking myself the same thing, however. I was asking myself if I was honestly ready to live in a world where everything and nothing is certain.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not afraid. Just curious.

[star studded]

The landscape of the heart of Providence had always interested Harlen Prior. Brown University rested as the city on a hill, a complex construction of brick facades that formed dorms and learning centers, a concrete dining hall and a bustling number of students and faculty that constantly lined the streets. At the bottom of the hill rested the river, its concrete bridges stretched over it and for the time, all traffic across was blocked off. In the background, one could hear the faint and distant hum of highway traffic, but only barely. Right now, the sound that filled his ears was some sort of easy listening music instead. Stretched out in front of the Rhode Island School of Design, Harlen was draped across concrete steps, his elbows resting on the jagged slants of the narrow stairs, his feet pressed below him. Waterfire had become a common occurence on Saturday nights in late fall. A handful of them would all trudge down from their dorm rooms in Lewis Hall, sprawl out in front of metal sculptures and twisted student art and watch as the boat would coast down the river, pause at each elevated pile of firewood and then turn the kindling into a bright blaze. Street performers danced around, art was shown off, and music played over assorted speakers that lined the edges of concrete walkways.

At age twenty, Harlen was still a lanky and slim boned creature, feline royalty that stretched out and took up more space than had been allotted him. Darkened, hazel eyes stared out at the fire-flicker and reflection that it cast on water, entranced by it. Something about it reminded him of the back of his own brain, watery and reflective, licking and stretching, sparking higher and higher until it just all faded out, and that pattern was committed to memory rather than experience. Dark hair fell in focused eyes and disrupted concentrated vision. With a tick of his head, strands were knocked out of the way again. Tonight was a different night. Instead of a handful of people from the same hallway, Harlen attended the water display with the company of Evan Miller, whose fingers were currently twirling absently at the back of his neck. A voice he had tuned out fell back into ears, a low, clear sound that Harlen wasn't used to hearing on such an eloquent level. Usually the sounds of their voices were muffled against the press of pillows, or crushed against the shell of ears, dotted and dragged between breaths and inadvertent open vowel sounds.

"So you aren't going home for winter break?"

"Nope." Harlen replied, tipping his head back and leaning it in the stretch of Evan's lap. "Lewis is a nine-month living space. I can stay here over break. It just costs a little more."

"Well, why aren't you going home?" Fingers pulled back at Harlen's hair, smoothing hairline out as his face came into view, hovering over.

"It's just.. pointless, I guess. To fly all the way across the country for four weeks and then fly back. It's a waste of plane fare."

"Says the boy who can buy everything."

"Oh, fuck you." Harlen laughed, sitting up and pulling away. Glancing back at Evan over the stretch of his shoulder, the smile on his face was one that the other boy had etched into his own memory. It was poignant and charming, enticing. It lured and denied all at once.

"Would you?" The other boy replied, leaning forward as Harlen pulled back. The pianist stretched to feet and descended stairs with a lazy gait, chuckling and sticking hands in blazer pockets. Fall was chilly, but not cold enough for him to pull out a black coat and gloves just yet. Elbows hung over the edge of the rail, staring down into the depth of the river that was dotted with red and orange reflection, the gondolas sailing through, packed with silly parties of two or four, all romance and happiness. Behind him, Evan crept up and propped his chin on Harlen's shoulder, eyes wide and palms propped on the jagged ledge of hips.

"Are your parents coming in to watch you conduct the ensemble next month?"

"Nah. Plane fare from California, remember? It's a waste. Besides, they can see me do my thing at home. They know what I'm doing, I keep them informed. It's not a big deal. They'll see me at the end of the year. We're going on vacation this summer." Harlen spun lies like a gossamer web, thin and airy but strong as steel, airtight and impenetrable. Let no one past, and no one discovered the truths you hid. Tipping back to glance at him, Harlen nudged hips towards Evan's, folding his spine against the wrap of warm, encompassing, no-strings arms.

"Where're you going?"

"Paris." Harlen reiterated with a low drawl and a light, dreamy sigh. A birthplace he wouldn't be visiting for another two years, in all actuality.

"So they can fly you all to Paris for the summer, but your mother and father aren't going to fly into Providence to see you conduct the ensemble and perform your final concert piece in December? And you aren't going to fly out there to spend holidays with them?" Evan swayed against him, the curve of his mouth pressed against Harlen's neck.

"What're you, my family therapist?"

"Relax, I was just saying." Pulling back, Evan settled beside him again, the two of them staring out over the river, man made and decorated in arching concrete tunnels below the pieces of route ninety-five that were blocked off. On the cobblestoned streets, there were no cars. Just the carts of novelty items and the colorful sights of street performers, a capella singing groups, jugglers and comedy troupes alike.

Evan's light eyes were focused on the profile of the pianist. He teemed with life and confidence, this air that buzzed and hummed around him before it dragged you in and emptied you and you were spit out again. Bony, wasted and spent, sucked dry of all of your valuable traits. As much as he knew better, he was interrupted by the whim and fancy of it all. The idea of wearing Harlen like jewelry to show off seemed more important to him at the moment than worrying about the ultimate consequence of it all.

"Well, if you don't want to waste money, you should come home with me."

Harlen turned his head a moment and stared. "Now?"

"No. I mean, for winter break. Come stay with me, we've got plenty of room. I live in Lakeville, it's this little town about a half an hour out of Boston, it's.."

Interrupting him, Harlen scoffed and snickered with a burst of laughter. "Come home with you? Honey, the minute your parents find out you're a little on the swishy side, your tuition will stop flowing and you'll be cut off like Japan."

"They won't have to know. No, no, I don't care if they know." Evan's voice grew more indignant, insisting and pushing. There had to be a way.

"I'm not exactly the pinnacle of all things Norman Rockwell. And frankly, you move your hips too much when you walk. It's obvious you do more with them than ballroom dance. Put the two of us together, and your parents will catch on. They aren't stupid. They went to Brown too, you know."

".. I never told you that, how did you.."

"Whatever. Anyway, what're you going to do? Mom, Dad, this is Harlen. He lives down the hall from me, he's the guy I've been fucking since sophomore year." Harlen's impersonation of Evan was dead on, a dry, low toned voice, flat and serious.

"No. I'll say, Mom, Dad, this is Harlen." He swallowed harshly. "My boyfriend."

As if on cue, Harlen pushed away from the edge of the concrete rail in front of the river and wandered back towards the lower walkway, a palm smearing over his face. "Jeeeeesus Chriiiiist.." It was drawn out and exasperated, his eyes rolling up a moment before shoulders shook off. Evan followed, confused, wide eyed and unsure.

"What? What is it?"

"This, Evan this.. this is why I sleep with men and not women. Because eighty percent of the time, this doesn't happen. You know, I really liked you. I mean.. you're fun, you're nice to hang around with, you're.. great in bed, but.. I don't want to be your boyfriend. I mean, I'm not going to be your boyfriend."

"Why not?" Stunned, Evan seemed shocked at this, as though Harlen had been writing him letters of devotion for the past months, when in reality, they had barely spoken for longer than it took for one to walk the other down the hall to their room.

"Because that takes all of the fun out of it!"

"So that's what I am? Fun?"

"Well.. yes! I'm fucking twenty. I don't need a boyfriend. I don't want one, I want to have fun in college and fuck who I want to fuck. Being your boyfriend means I have to like.. stop fucking Paul and Steven."

"You're.. fucking other people!?" Evan erupted a moment with a sound that made people turn their heads. Harlen didn't mind the attention, really. He had no secrets to keep and no lies to tell.

"Of course I am, I'm human for Christ's sake!"

"God, Harlen!" Evan shouted, a palm smearing at his forehead. "I can't believe you, I can't believe you're... like this, I thought you were different, I thought you .. ahh, fuck it, I thought wrong, I thought all wrong."

"It's an easy mistake to make, I guess. I don't know, I didn't make any secret about it, it's not like it was cheating or anyth--"

"Fuck you!" Palms pressed to his shoulders and Harlen was shoved back a few steps, fumbling on feet and regaining balance. Evan, eyes wide and angry, stood there seething. There was little Harlen could do to react. "Fuck you, Harlen! One day you're going to be someone's fun! One day you're going to see what it feels like, because you're heartless! You don't.. care about anyone but yourself!"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Fuck you!"

With a smash of shoulders, Evan plowed forward and past him, into the confused crowd and back up the hill of College Street towards their dorm. Confused, but far from concerned, Harlen peered over his shoulder to watch him go. So be it. Stalking away seemed to work for everyone. Sinking back a few steps, Harlen settled on the stairs again, sprawled out and watching the same spot. Fire flickered and wavered in the water, shuddering and shivering with the intent of burning out.

That was what he'd do. He'd crackle, spark and burn until there was nothing left of himself but ash.

[star studded]

Final fall semester projects had looming deadlines that pressed closer and closer, weighing down on Harlen though he shrugged them effortlessly away. Notes hit staff paper as quickly as they came to him, the dots and slashes of lines marking out complicated melody, fingers pressing down on the keys of the old Baldwin piano. It was just a touch out of tune, but Harlen was sure he could point it out to the heads of the music department and they'd think he was completely insane. Blame astute hearing. He always did.

Stuffing notebooks and folders of music back into a backpack, he slung it lazily over his shoulder, fingers moving to fasten buttons down his front before he pushed out of the hall and towards the street again. Brown University was lit up and brimming with life on a Friday night, students shuffling past him on their way to the thudding sounds of the club district downhill from the campus, or Thayer Street behind him. Rather than turn on heel and charge after them in anticipation, he scolded himself for a late start on the ritual weekend celebration. Weaving between brick buildings and down a flight of concrete stairs, he pushed the door of his dorm open and felt heat blast at him with a force that made his stomach churn. The air vents were always on full blast at night and the change in drastic temperature was shocking.

Charging down the hallway, he sidestepped the occasional pajama clad resident that chose to stay in and study, grinning at familiar faces and shuffling fingers through his pocket for a room key. Lingering outside a decorated door, an arm snagged his elbow and he turned on heel to greet the grinning face of a bright-eyed girl from down the hall.

"Harlen!"

"Jackie!" He imitated her voice, upbeat and pitchy, complete with the little head-tip before he reached to stick key into lock. Instead of reaching it, she dragged him back and he felt feet skid across carpet. Harlen stared at her a moment with a furrowed brow, confused. "Problem?"

"Well.. I just think that.."

As her hand tightened on his elbow, it all flashed behind glassy eyes. The inside of the room unfolded and he pulled his arm out of her grip, trembling fingers searching for keys before the right one was pressed into the lock and twisted with enough force to snap it off. The door shoved open and inside, he saw his roommate, Mark, hunched over shards and flakes of what once used to be an immaculate record collection. Mark stared up, blue eyes blinking behind thick rimmed glasses, a palm coursing over hair in disarray, his hands lifting in an attempt to placate the fuming twenty-something.

"Harlen. Don't. Don't get upset, it's just.. they're just.."

"They're not just records! You fuck! You let him in here! You asshole!" Harlen bellowed, collapsing down to hands and knees in front of the shattered collection.

"I didn't know! I didn't know, Harlen, I wouldn't have--"

"SHUT UP!" Cardboard faces were torn and strewn around, the beautiful art of opera slip covers shredded into nothing more than a mismatch of mixed pieces. Harlen threw palms down into the wreckage that Mark was struggling to clean up and then pushed himself up again. A hand hooked towards the door and he flung himself into the hallway at top stalking speed, rounding a corner with Jackie tripping feet behind him and shouting after.

"Harlen! Leave it alone, don't even bother!"

Evan's door was cracked open and Harlen picked up speed, watching as a pair of eyes peered out. The door was shutting on itself, but Harlen threw a surprisingly assertive palm against the flat of it and shoved back. Evan stumbled a step or two and his roommate looked up from his hunch over his desk in surprise. Leaning forward, Harlen's hands grabbed at the front of Evan's hooded sweatshirt and he was driven back against the wall with a rough slam of bone into concrete. Hands pushed at Harlen's shoulders but he wouldn't be removed. The struggle caught the attention of a stunned Jackie in the doorway and a shocked roommate, who had swept from his seat to back away from the scuffle.

"You fucking ugly prick! Those were my father's records, you jealous motherfucker! I'm going to --"

"Get off of me!"

"Shut up!" Pushing, Harlen knocked Evan to the side and toppled him onto the flat of one of the desks, sending books and supplies crashing over the edge. "Why did you do it? Why the fuck did you ruin my father's fucking records!?"

Evan stared up at him with a sneer, the construction of his face back lit by the dim desklamp that shone over traditionally attractive features. His knuckles were locked at the wool of Harlen's coat, his spine wriggling to attempt to push away from the desk. "Because you deserved it, you talentless asshole."

There were things that could dig at Harlen. His music. His family. His art. Fists held tight and lifted Evan up enough to slam him back down again with a loud thunk. "Better to be a talentless asshole than a useless, closeted faggot, you piece of shit." Evan was knocked back one more time and Harlen pulled himself away, chest heaving with the short breath of adrenaline. Backing towards the door, Jackie pulled herself out of the way before he spun on heel and pointed a stalky finger at the other boy, who was peeling himself upright.

"Come near me again. Come near my room, my things again, and I'll make sure your precious, ignorant parents know exactly what their son looks like bent over my desk during a study session."

"You wouldn't."

"Everything, Evan. Every last gory fucking detail."

"Get out of my room."

Stalking away gladly, Harlen struggled between what he knew, and what he Knew, his voice low and hushed as anger seethed and twisted teeth and in the crooks of joints. His muscles were stiff and stuck in place, his fists clenched at sides. When he bellowed out an insulting order, it was an eerily descriptive one, stuck with buzzing static in his head, crisp and clear on his tongue when it came forward.

"Drop dead of a heart-attack before you're forty."

It was low. Harlen wished it could have been lower.

[star studded]

"Yew wanted to meet."

Amidst the bustling pedestrian traffic of the New York sidewalks, Asher stood stone and statuesque among the moving bodies. Across from him, a good three strides of long legs away, stood the almost identical frame of the prophet. Both men were wearing dark jackets with their gloved fists stuck in pockets for warmth, light colored scarves wrapped protectively around necks. They stood at nearly the same height, one's mop of hair a simple brown, the other's a curling, tangling mess of blonde and brown.

"I've got errands to run. You're sufficient company." Harlen was the first to close the space between them, feet plodding across concrete. Asher pivoted on heel when Harlen moved past, turning to walk shoulder to shoulder. They looked like an arsenal rather than a duo of friends, two sinister warriors in their uniforms, marching straight into a battle rather than the closest drug store.

"I thought yew had enough company these days." Watching as automatic opening doors slid on their runners like gates, the comment was more innocent than the ecstatic made it seem to be, wincing at his own harsh tone rather than making verbal apologies.

"You're different company. You have answers."

"Do I?"

"More than he does."

"Depends on your question." A pause. "Questions."

Asher stopped a moment, to see if Harlen would copycat the same lack of action and explain without him having to ask. The prophet, however, trudged on towards the aisle in question, confronted with a rainbow of boxes and bottles of panacea and painkillers alike. Dark eyes squinted at the labels and instructions, fingers wrapping around the metal handles of his plastic shopping basket. Asher had no choice but to follow, rubber soles padding along the carpeted floor of the pharmacy, peering over Harlen's shoulder to examine his choices, or lack thereof.

"Questions. Yew said yew have questions."

"Wrong again. I said you had answers. I never said anything about questions."

"No wonder you're with Michael. Yew two.. so literal. Speaking in riddle and rhyme and all of that. Birds of a feather--"

"Fuck each other." Harlen cut Asher off before anything else could be said, ensuring that, as usual, he had the last word when it came to making someone squirm.

"I suppose so. Wot answers do yew want, prophet." He muttered, reaching into the plastic basket to retrieve a box that Harlen had placed in there a moment ago. Harlen slapped angrily at Asher's wrist, but the ecstatic pulled the box away to examine it. "Cough syrup?" Peering back into the basket, he reached for another one to read its label. "Fever reducer?"

"Michael's sick."

"Wot a little Florence Nightengale yew are." Asher crooned. With a roll of eyes, Harlen snatched back all stolen items and tossed them into the basket again, reaching to examine rows and rows of painkillers until he found the migraine relief. Picking up a bottle, he pushed it into the basket and proceeded to snag one of everything, ruthlessly and without contemplation. The Brit's voice sighed out and voice lifted over the annoying swing of the muzak. "Questions."

"Headaches."

"Wot?" Brows knit together in confusion.

Frustrated, Harlen stared up at the ecstatic and sighed with a dramatic heave of lungs. "Headaches. Blinding, debilitating headaches. I get them between two and four in the morning and they're terrible. I can barely move, I wheeze. I can't talk, and I can't sleep them off. So instead, I sleep all day, or I don't sleep at all."

"Have yew seen a doctor?"

"It's not a doctor issue."

"Yew can't attribute every little tick and twitch to prophecy. That usually requires vision, and these aren't visions. Are they?" Reaching to snag a bottle of the painkillers he threw into the basket, Asher examined symptoms and shrugged shoulders. "I don't know. I don't know, Harlen, it.. why would I know about this?"

"I don't know. I just feel like you would. I feel like for some reason, they're.. because of you."

"I'm causing them? Do yew actually think I'd do that?"

"Not on purpose. I just think that they.. look, in my little.. fucked up prophetic world, they're coming from your direction. Radar. Whatever. You've got it, we've all got it. And every time I get one, you blip in my head with every pulse. And I don't know why. Are you having headaches too?"

"No?" Shrugging shoulders over, Asher replaced the medicine and stuck hands back into dark jacket pockets.

"Anything? Are you sick at all? Any pain, any.."

"No aches really. Just the usual kinks in my neck in the morning, but.. I'm the empathetic one out of the three of us. Remember? Not yew." A finger pointed to the healing over swell of the right edge of a red bottom lip. The notion occurred suddenly to the prophet. That wasn't his talent. Out of the three of them, the so-called Metaphysical Social Club, each had their own area of expertise. Asher felt, Harlen saw, and Michael dabbled between. Silent and scowling, Asher's voice broke him out of the morose reverie.

"Ask Michael. Maybe it's him?"

"It's not. And don't tell him."

"Why not?"

"Because. I told you not to." And that would be all that was said on that matter. "I need to get some tea. Echinacea. Where's that stuff?"

Asher used a finger to indicate to the rows behind the medicine to something more holistic. He watched as lanky legs wound through aisles and dark eyes were settled on boxes and rows of tea. Following, Asher lingered behind and paced across carpet in slow, wandering steps. "Yew can't be a secret keeper."

"Are you more Locke or Reid?"

"Wot?" The sudden change of subject jarred him, his brain not exactly locking onto the important parts of questions.

"Locke or Reid. Philosophers that dealt with the nature of man and his social behavior. Locke believed that you were born a blank slate and all behaviors, good or evil, were learned. Reid was one of the Scottish Common Sense philosophers, so consequentially he said the exact opposite. That men were born with a common sense morality. And then there's de Tocqueville, but he's irrelevant right now.."

Asher's hand held up and he let jaw hang open in silence a moment before managing to find enough words to cut Harlen off with. "So wot are yew asking me?"

"I'm asking you about the nature of evil."

"Wot does this have to do with anything?"

"Why do you constantly question?"

"Why do yew constantly.."

"Jesus Christ, Asher!" He sighed, tossing tea into the basket and turning to face him. "Evil. Not bad guys, not.. whatever. Evil. Pure evil. What do you think it is, do you think it's a force in the world, a veritable, pulsing, spiritual force, or is it something else? Attributed to the .. I don't know. The absence of good, the absence of humanity, of decency, the absence of.."

"..God."

Surprisingly, Asher chimed in and overlapped Harlen's train of thought. He wasn't used to having it done to him so much as being the one who could do it to everyone else. It was confusing and a little creepy. "Yes."

"In the third century, Manikeism was the belief that there were two forces in the world. Light and dark. Light was spiritual, goodness, all those things. The dark was the material. Matter. Anything physical. Thusly, all humans were dark. And all humans were born with the original components to be capable of acts of evil." Asher began, reaching for a new brand of tea and examining the back of it for ingredients. "The idea of evil as a.. a spiritual force, a thing in the world.. faded when the world came into a secular view. There were no more dualistic religions to hide behind, no more ... I don't know. But.. the sense of evil as an absence of good faded as well. Vices like ambition and pride are now virtues. And of course, the presence of God has faded as well, taking that with it."

"But .. what about you, what do you think is evil?"

Sighing, a broad palm smeared over Asher's features. It was complex. There were no real answers to be given, but it became clearer and clearer what the questions that Harlen had in mind were when he called him earlier that day. That was always the case. All questions and no answers.

"I think evil, the true source of any and all evil has nothing to do with God." It was a shocking revalation from the Catholic ecstatic. Harlen himself hadn't seen it coming, so hazel eyes lifted from their stare at the tea and shifted over to the profile of the Brit, waiting impatiently for him to reveal more.

"What is it?"

"The true source of it is in us. Human cruelty. That's where evil is. Selfishness, obsession, deviance, defiance. Those are our evils. That is the force of it."

For a moment, in the back of Harlen's brain, something briefly clicked into clarity and faded out again, like a word on the tip of his tongue that simply wouldn't allow itself to be uttered.

"Asher. Have you ever known anyone like that? Anyone who you felt was.. completely and purely just.. evil?"

Seaglass colored eyes slid suspiciously over, his mouth in a taut, contemplative line.

"I.. no. No, I haven't, thank God."

The prophet knew it wasn't a lie, boldfaced and intended, but it was the electric hum in his head that bothered him. It wasn't a truth.

Asher, in all of his oblivious glory, couldn't distinguish his own truths from the trappings of a frayed, painted over past.

[star studded]

Asher was almost frightened at the sight of Harlen's closet. It spanned far more distance than his own and there was much more color inside. The materials varied from cotton to tweed, to knit wool and designer fabric. There was no order to all of it, but Harlen knew where to find each individual article in the line, fingers sifting through all the jackets and shirts that hung there while Asher simply looked on.

"So.. wot are yew going for, again?"

"I need you to make me look as straight as possible." Harlen commented over his shoulder, flinging a jacket back at Asher, who fumbled before he caught it and looked it over.

"Is that possible?" The Brit joked, just to have another jacket flung at him. Still, the size of the apartment impressed and astounded him. It stretched out never-ending, and from the living room, they could still hear the clear echo of music that Harlen had put on, bouncing off flat surfaces and reaching their ears effortlessly. "It's not going to be that bad.."

"For you! For you it wasn't that bad, because you're British, you've got something in common with him!" Laying out more clothes, Harlen picked through them with a rapid pace and a flutter of a hand through his hair. At the moment, he looked nothing like the person he wanted to become. Instead, he was a colorful t-shirt, clashing pants and bare feet, barely out of pajamas for the Ecstatic's arrival.

"And since we come from the same country, I'm sure we're bound to have dozens of other things to talk about." Asher's eyes rolled and he reached to pluck a jacket from the bunch, draping it aside for later consideration. "You'll be fine. Talk about .. I don't know, opera? Music? Who doesn't like music?"

"Plenty of people."

"You're being pessimistic."

Glancing up from the pile of mismatched fabric and cut, Harlen stared wide-eyed at Asher, mouth slightly open. "Of course I'm being pessimistic. I don't meet family well. Or at all, for that matter."

"Yew met Lani."

"That.. doesn't count! Lani's different. She's like.. fake family, she's more friend than family. You know what I mean?"

Asher held up a red and white striped Oxford and handed it forward. "How about this?"

"No!" Swatting it away, the prophet scowled and groaned in protest. "No prints, no patterns, no ... color. Let's stay as boring as possible. Straight people are boring, right? I mean, you're kinda boring."

"Hey!"

"Okay, not that boring, but.. that!" He pointed at Asher with a long, confident finger. "Make me look like that."

Asher looked down at himself and examined. A sweater layered over white, the cuffs and collar of his shirt pulling out and over. His slacks were belted at the hip, modest denim as opposed to anything remotely fancy. Scowling a moment, he stared back up. Months ago, he had been rummaging through Michael's closet in the same fashion, searching for something dressy enough for a first date. Everything had shifted and turned into something new now. They had all come a far way from those times, where everything was cut and dry. Ignoring blurred edges and a lack of some longing for the past, Asher reached over to find an odd, widely-cuffed dress-shirt in the fray. Snagging the black jacket he had set aside, the white shirt was tossed on top of it and he pointed plainly at a pair of jeans across the way. "Those."

Amazed, Harlen blinked at the perfect combination. "You work quick. You're like a metrosexual Jedi."

"I've been working on this straight man thing for a long time now." With a nod of his head, Asher assured him.

"Can you go instead of me, then?"

"No! Are yew out of your tree?"

"But you're better at this than I am!" Reaching over, Harlen tugged on Asher's arm with an insistent pull. "You know him, you can talk about.. soccer and intellectual things. Knowing me, I'll end up .. talking about daisies or Elton John and then the jig is up. I might as well omit the letter 's' from my vocabulary, the sibilance will completely give me away as the giant fairy I am. Did you hear that? That word, I can't even--"

"Stop it. You're freaking out over absolutely nothing!"

"This is not nothing! This is .. everything!"

Pausing, Harlen watched as the look on Asher's face turned from concerned and comforting to amused and taunting. Harlen was suddenly horrified and scraping for an excuse to change the subject.

"So, right, thanks for helping me, but I should start getting ready, it's almost --"

"Yew care wot someone else thinks about yew!"

"I do not!"

"Yew do too! It's why you're all ... wound up and nervous! How wonderful, Harlen Prior is finally susceptible to some sort of examination and scrutiny."

"Cut it out. Asshole." Harlen's eyes narrowed and he snatched up the clothes laid out for him, reaching for the waist of his pants. "If you aren't out of here in two seconds, I'm getting naked in front of you."

"Yew wouldn't."

"Wanna test that theory, amigo?" Harlen snapped, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. With a roll of light eyes, Asher pulled himself up from the stretch of the mattress and shook his head, a brash palm clapping down on the prophet's shoulder.

"Enjoy your dinner." Without another threat or the formality of a goodbye, he slipped out of the sprawling apartment and left Harlen to his own, private agonizing over the rest of the details.

[star studded]

Staring at his image in the mirror, Harlen Prior spent afternoons barefoot and searching for something to do. There was mild company now that the two puppies were barking and swirling around the apartment, their nails clicking and their little yips echoing throughout the front room. One hand braced the sink while the other commanded a toothbrush at the awkward hour of noon, a foamy mouthful of mint spit into the basin. Cupping his hand, he rinsed out his mouth with tap water and stared up again in the reflection of the mirror.

The collar of his t-shirt drooped low, stretched out from the tossing and turning of sleep. Unknotted drawstring pants hung off of hips, and stalky fingers pulled them back into place before he dug the heel of his hand into his eye to press away something that lingered behind it, a pulsing that hadn't evolved into pain quite yet. He could blame it on irregular sleeping patterns and the shrill sounds of Lani's dogs, but he wouldn't. Standing in front of the mirror, Harlen decided he would take a moment to let it pass.

It didn't pass. Instead, it intensified and forced fingers to curl around the edge of the porcelain sink, gripping as some sort of stabalizing force. Usually he'd call out a name for some sort of assistance, but the apartment in all its sprawl held no help but the fluffy, barking puppies.

Squinting eyes closed, Harlen rubbed thumb and forefinger at them as room started to spin and tile underfoot felt tilted.

Miles away and thousands of feet higher, Asher Stanton sat in first class seats on a flight across the Atlantic. A pain behind eyes had been prevalent for about twenty minutes, but now it was nearly unbearable. Squinting eyes, he imitated the same motion, his thumb and forefinger pressing on eyes and pulling out at corners. Despite Lani's concern, a hand swept over her shoulder and he was assuring her that things were just fine. It was the altitude, the stress, the amount of wine he had swallowed down with her in an attempt to ignore the fact that there was no earth under their feet.

Moments later, it was far from fine. Hunching over, fingers pressed to his temples and tried desperately to nudge away pain. It was no use when consciousness flickered and he felt things twist and turn. A surge of a different sort of pain pulled at the weak point of his temple and he lifted dual fingers to press to it. Sticky, warm red surged against his hand and he pulled it away to display it to himself a moment, eyes narrowing before he excused himself and swept down the aisle towards the bathroom.

In a New York apartment, knees wavered, buckled and collapsed. Despite his efforts to push away from the sharp edge of sink and counter, Harlen's temple brashly caught the corner as he hit the floor. In the midst of a shake between black and white, things twisted between reality and a buried past that was not his own.

[star studded]

<center>

A Prelude to a Dream




if there is a horizontal line
that runs from the map, off your body
straight through the land
shooting up right through my heart
will this horizontal line, when asked,
know how to find
where you end
where I begin

if the rain has
to separate
from itself
does it say
pick out your cloud?</center>

[star studded]

[taken from live-play between landfillsky and notmyvoice]


Part One: To Before We Were Us


Why he picked tonight of all nights to breach barriers and slip between thought and action, he wasn't sure. There was a desire to be consciously close, even in sleep. Michael's dreams were exactly how he expected them to be. Dark, old, smelling of must and yellowed pages of books. Everything felt dusty and archaic, old volumes, leather bound and cloth-back lined them where walls should have been. It was a maze with one clear thing that could be seen from any angle. The sweeping staircase that grew from hard marble floors stuck out and guided upwards.

Rather than climb it, Harlen was already wandering the maze halls of high shelves. Hands tucked into the pockets of his suit. It was librarian-worthy, or old historian. A rich brown color, a vest, a perfectly knotted tie tucked at his neck. In dreams, he had no stitches at his temple, no over-tired expression and hollowed out complexion. He was always at his peak in dreams, ruddy and filled with life. He was endless. Shoes stepped mutedly over tiles, eyes peering at the dark colored spines of books, reading off their titles. There was something in every language, enough to keep him busy while he waited.

The dreaming was a body. Everything was important and connected, but in the same turn, its own separate entity. At the center of it all was the library. Like a heart, organized the flow of everything else and held its own thrumming energy. Heart, surprisingly, rather than brain. Would wonders ever cease? The shelves were brimming with ancient texts in creaking spines and cracked leather jackets. There was a break in one shelf, however, but only briefly. When he lifted from his perch, it would fill again as if a secret panel kept rows of books hidden in the wall.

In his dreams, all the wrinkles and overgrowth of life were banished in this place. He was glowing and sleek in his suit with its old fashioned cut. Three piece and light tweed, its medium brown complimented the wingtips that swung out as he idly rocked feet back and forth. Wire, rather than black plastic, frames were donned as he read. Their curving ends hid beneath the fall of his hair. Inky strands were parted severely at the side and smoothed back. Everything reeked of a silver screen that had long ago been replaced by digital.

Footsteps, no matter how soft, still emitted a slight echo with each motion forward. Fingers still decorated in the familiar bands and rings that he wore on them in the waking world trailed along spines as he walked, plucking at them like they were melody making strings or piano keys he could press. Michael was more felt than seen. He knew he was here. Somewhere, in the maze of shelves, he was waiting, wandering. Rather than whip around, tear books from their perches and search, he lolled along and used his voice as a guiding beacon. He didn't speak, or shout, but he sang, every note arcing up and extending. The library filled with his voice. It snuck into every crack and crevasse, between books, up into the rafters, along the floor. "Reviens, reviens, ma bien-aimee.." He sang out, pausing a moment to see if he could discern any notice. Silence hung a moment, a rest of melody before he continued. It was more dream-lullabye than anything else. "Comme une fleur loin du soliel.."

It was not a mere coincidence that mind spun a metaphor that contrasted with the song that now filled the library. Language unfolded, like a flower before the sun here. Looking up from his book, fingers reached to drag the spectacles from his vision. Staring out a moment, he searched mentally for the prophet who came in gentle radar bleeps: heartbeat and the electric hum of an intruding mind. Several rows ahead, but directly in front. Chin lifted gently and gave verbal command. Like the red sea to Moses' staff, the rows of shelves parted and realigned themselves. What was once left and right ran up and down. The ancient wooden holds of a gallery of books creaked painfully, but remained solid. Now a narrow corridor for either men to tear through, the shelves settled into the triangular pattern of the inlaid floors beneath.


" Entre nos coeurs qu'elle distance; tant d'espace entre nos baisers --" His voice would never draw sold out crowds like that of Harlen's. It was clear, on pitch, but nonetheless an ordinary tenor. The irony was in how a man who muddled through the language in a waking world and claimed ignorance could pronounce it so well in his dreaming. "O sort amer! ? dure absence! O grands d?sirs inapais?s!"

Turning his head over his shoulder when the shelves creaked, he was exposed. They pulled away like curtains to spotlight him standing there, tall and sturdy, slim, the profile of his face accented in the dim light of the library. Slowly, a foot lifted and he pivoted to turn around, staring straight at the goal he had to reach. As much as he wanted to rush, he couldn't. Steps were slow, leisurely, paced out one after the other.

"You never sing to me." His voice was that same, clear baritone, slightly stuck in his nose, slightly rasped from cigarette smoking and youthful drug and alcohol abuse that had stripped vocal cords bare.

"You never visit my dreams," Michael reiterated once more, countering the comment. It was cleverly done and executed brilliantly with the faintest shift of his shoulders beneath brown tweed and at the corners of his mouth.

"...And in perfect French. I want to dream with you more often." A hand stretched out towards him, the corners of the former Cheshire's mouth lifting. "Hold onto me. This place can be tricky. I don't want to lose you."

Sliding from his perch upon the shelf once the prophet was in arm's reach, wingtips settled upon floor and shelves righted themselves. In a whirling rush of sound and final snap of dust cloud, books filled in the space that body had once occupied. Stepping forward, the flat of his palm settled between the blades of the shoulders that he found himself aligning with. He stared out for a moment, down the endless row of books that were constantly shifting and repositioning themselves into something new and complex. A maze of books. What a Michael-friendly concept. "You can't lose me here. Not unless I want to be lost." And a half beat later, "...So you should be nice to me."

Sheepishly, Harlen drew eyes away and glanced at the floor. It took a moment and a breath, but there were always explanations. "I was worried. I found my way into your body first. Kisses, bruises, bite marks. And then your heart next, surprisingly. It took some metalwork and lock picking, but I found a good spot. I thought maybe I should let you have your head. Let that be your sanctuary, thoughts, dreams, subconscious. I'd leave that alone." Fingers clutched lightly at Michael's sleeve, squeezing and letting go. "But I can never leave you alone. I can never just leave you be. I crawl in. I inhabit. But the trick here is.. it's your dream. You can make me go away.. yes. You can't stop me from coming back, but you can always make me go away."

Part poetic, part parasitic. He felt himself soften against the sequence of events that in the waking world ran so very backwards. There it was first mind, then heart, and finally, body. Here, however, it made perfect sense. He smiled quietly and moved to place glasses in the inside breast pocket of his blazer. "You can stay. I, don't mind. It's nice. Funny, I think. If I remember it, I'll undoubtably tease you about it in the morning. Come --" Beckoning the man onward with a roll of his hand, Michael began to wander down the corridor. Looking up, eyes circled the dizzying spiral of floors that had one central thread of unending staircase. There was a childlike wonder in his eye, an appreciation for the detail and complexity of the easily destroyed scene. Only in his dreams did he feel like a god, or something larger and greater than mere mortal.


"Funny?" He pulled back a moment, his chin cocked sidelong and his eyes narrowing in question. Following when he was motioned for, he quickly closed the space that he had left too open. It was strange here. He couldn't twist shelves to his liking, he couldn't send books flying, he couldn't create or destroy. He could only observe, suggest, hope. He was not powerless, but he was knocked down notch by notch. Stepping forward, he tentatively glanced left and right, as if some shelf was going to come slamming down the slim corridor like a freight train and smash him into dust. "Is this what you usually dream about? Work? Literature? Me?"

"No. I dream about many things. This, is just... Reoccuring. A central place. A haven. But, sometimes I dream of work or of literature or, of you." Green eyes, sparked into something even more vibrant by the ribbon of his tie, flickered over to the pianist.

"What do you dream about me?" He asked, tipping his head up and trying to see where the numerous floors ended and the ceiling began. He couldn't quite discern. A haven. This was Michael's haven, comforting and familiar. To the prophet, it was strange and only slightly scary. It was too big, too unpredictable. "Do you have a favorite book in this place, or are you still working on reading the entire collection?"

As they wandered, one hand reached to roll fingers down the line of the weathered spines. Beneath is fingertips, each had a separate subtle tone. He played upon them like a xylophone and they each obliged with a single, rolling scale. Beautiful. "You don't want to know what I dream about when I dream of you." He spoke evenly and without any visible concealment. Rather, he stated something new rather than answer immediately. What Michael dreamt of was far more vibrant and open than any declaration from his stumbling mouth. He couldn't conceal himself in the scene. Words, however, could be swallowed back. Reaching up, fingers scratched upon the soft depression of his temple beneath olive skin. "The collection is neverending and everchanging. I can't.. possibly read everything. At least, I don't imagine I can. But I've a favorite thus far, yes. Plato's Symposium."

Trying after him, fingers danced along spines and no sound came. Nothing. He was nothing. "I feel.. like you felt when we were fucking and nothing was rattling or flying. Something's gone. Something's missing. You took something from me." It wasn't accusing, but more observant. Strange. This was not his territory it seemed. Michael would not be manipulated by any means. "Of course I want to know." He could very easily find out. Though, it would be strange to stare himself in the face in the midst of one of Michael's dreams. Two Harlens, one Michael's creation and one a projection of the sleeping prophet.

Glancing up again, he let out a sigh and nodded his head. "Plato. I can't say I did a lot of reading of the Classics when I was in college. We never had to. That's more Asher's territory than mine. Why Plato's Symposium?" He asked, a hand smoothing over Michael's elbow, his chin sliding to perch on his shoulder. Nose buried into neck and he breathed in the smell. It was a mesh of the old suit and familiar skin, layered over with that clinging scent of yellowed pages.

"What's gone? Our physical shapes? A world built of steel and concrete around us? Nothing's gone. Nothing's missing." But yes, he had taken something from Harlen. To announce it, however, would only sound overly confident and cocky. Instead, the vessel was kept hidden away inside the slant of his suit pocket like a secondary pair of spectacles. "You'll be alarmed. You'll wake up and think... I'm, I don't know." The funneled into the classics rather than description. Conscious or not, he was the conversational Houdini. No box or lock could keep him. "Because its the key to everything. Did you know that Tolstoy divided his life into two parts: before he read the Symposium and after it? He paused there, in step and in speech. Drawing in a quiet breath, the fringe of his eyelashes shuttered low and vision briefly escaped him. A flash of something else, something new, but ultimately unexplored passed over the screen of his eyelids. "I'm glad you came to visit me."

"No, something in me. Something of mine.." He couldn't quite title it or place it, but he knew it was missing, like something out of place that usually fit into such perfect order. Another breath dragged in and he glanced over. Powerless. Here, he knew nothing. "I won't think you're anything that you aren't. I can't. You can't alarm me. Remember? Not like everyone else is alarmed.." The conversation shifted and ebbed like creaking shelves, from one formation to the next. "No. I didn't know that. There's so much I don't know that you.." The sentence went unfinished, hanging. It was his own choice to keep that dangerous admission quiet. Instead, an arm snaked around his waist and Harlen circled him round. "It's no visit. I'll be there when you wake up. You should see us now, shipwrecked on the mattress, drained. You have your arm around me, like this." The snaking limb of the prophet snuck across Michael's chest and a hand hooked at his shoulder, his nose nudging at his jaw. "Tell me more about the key to everything."

Mouth opened to argue further, to press and insist. No, when he dreamt of Harlen it wasn't some everyday scene where one wrote as the other played piano. Nor was it a red-lit, graphic sprawl of limbs and breath. It was something different and primitive. Jaw resetting, he dug teeth thoughtfully into the curve of his bottom lip. "Well, he did. Then again, he's Russian and Russians are prone to dramatics like that. Not," words stumbled against the shape of his curling, amused tone. "-- Not that Spaniards are much better. But, I digress..." He spoke as if he were giving a lecture. It was a peculiar, bookish trait. "He did. And sometimes, here at least, so do I."

Tugged and shaped into a new pose, hands smoothed over the finely tailored shell of Harlen's blazer and found a spot upon the ledge of hips as a nose tapped against clean-shaven jaw. "Don't move," he murmured as head bowed in and breath rustled against a healed temple. The prophet was kept close and in place. He circled back around, two-fold. "The key is in the beginning. In how we were once. And that's what I dream of when I dream of you. I, dream of how we were once. Before this."

Grinning, there was a breath of laugh rather than the usual boisterous sweep of it to fill the library. Quiet, he let hands settle on his hips. Don't move. Frozen to the spot, Harlen kept the pose effortlessly. He felt like he could stand like this for years, without the ache of muscles, or the need for food, water, or anything else. "How were we? Where was before? When?" In this setting, Michael was clearly the teacher and Harlen the student, scribbling and scrambling to keep concepts straight despite how new they were. It was a strange reversal of roles. In the waking world, Harlen was the one in the forefront, cocky and self-assured, trying to hammer concepts into Michael that he wasn't sure the professor even wanted to learn. "This feels.. I don't know. It's different. It's not how I've always known it."

He drew in a shallow breath, and in a moment, wanted to go back. Beneath his feet, the ground rumbled with a rush of nerves that would have otherwise ripped through his stomach. To escape would be easy. Any number of distraction could have launched them into new territory, yet... "It's so complicated, principito. There's so much. There's not... Enough time. You have to go back. All the way back. To before gods were forgotten. That's why your god left. He was forgotten and thereby stripped of.. Well. That's not the part. That, doesn't have to do with... It's not the important part." Gathering him in, in crawling inching movements of fingers, the lanky frame was pressed closer to his own and the excess material of his coat folded between fingers. Mouth pressed a kiss to the pale skin just above collar. "Tell me, what do you want of me?"

Beneath his feet, the ground shuddered on some fault line and Harlen's knuckles clenched linen tighter. He was startled. He hadn't anticipated it. Everything was off. Every sense had gone dumb. The mention of an absent God sent a pang through him, something inside clicking into place. Abandonment. It trailed through his life, it left marks all over the place. He had notches in his heart with every abandonment, father, mother, guardian after guardian, brief friends, the errant, absent lovers, and finally, God. He was struck with some sudden urge to scream, but instead, he stood composed and still, but defeated. Weakened. He was a shell, unfulfilled. It was only in a moment like this that he could really answer such a question. "I want you always. I want forever. I want to never be without you, from here until the end. I want to die with you." Eyes blinked out and he averted any and all looks. He felt sickeningly exposed, ripped open from stomach to neck, every bloody tangled organ all in knots and out of order. "Everything here. It's bigger. I feel it all, I can.. it's just huge. If I take a step away from you, it hurts. We aren't supposed to be apart."

Both dragging, defeated half and Hephaestus, immortal instruments in hand, Michael felt a familiar sting begin in his chest. It was always there first, the entry wound of some ancient, burned-out lightning bolt. An apology murmured against skin, the syllables blurred by the snag of lips against collar. "You know I'm not very good at all of this. I, I don't know. I'm --" The familiar stammering and stutter-pace of his wakeful speech bled out. He was, briefly aware of himself. "When we fuck, I... I feel like, I'm trying to put myself back together." Words felt tangible. They slipped and slid off his tongue, staining lips and skin. It was only when he tugged back that he saw the ink stains that now smeared and threatened to stain dress-shirt. Knuckles ran across the curve of his bottom lip to drag up the excess red. No. Not ink. Blood. The coppery taste drew back in with a breath, choking him. Thumb roughly smeared away the staining streak against neck.

"'In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three. Man, woman, and the union of the two. The latter's first name has been lost. Three because the sun, moon, and earth are three. Man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and man-woman of the moon, which is made up of both earth and sun. They were all round and moved thusly. Like their parents. Do you follow? Does it sound familiar?"


To put himself back together. Harlen struggled to conceptualize it. The idea of being incomplete was something foreign to him. He had always felt whole, finished, not a work in progress, but a masterpiece. All until Michael. And then he saw the cracks in himself, the seams of idiosyncratic behavior where he could have found improvement. He saw fault. He was incomplete. Fingers lifted to help smear away red from the professor's mouth, thoughts running at lightning speed. He followed each word, each idea sparking image and idea, his chin dipping to affirm. "Yes. Yes, I'm following. It.. I don't know how familiar, but I understand. I understand it." Hands couldn't pry themselves away from the professor, they clung to lapels of his jacket, or to his wrists, or coursed carefully over his face.

"Terrible was their might and strength. The thoughts of their hearts were great. The gods were at a loss at what to do with them, exactly. Should they be killed like the giants?" The rhetorical question was posed and left suspended a moment before continuation continued again. "Ah, but then that would be the end of the sacrifices and worship that men offered to them. So, no. There must be some other way to punish their growing insolence. Finally, Zeus declared that he would cut them in half. No longer would the children of sun, earth, and moon be joined. More upheaval and disquiet would result in further splitting. And so, man was cut in two and Apollo was called to sweep in and stitch them into the shape we bear now." He paused to allow the prophet time to absorb and possibly, to remember.