When Billy was four, he'd had a stuffed bear named Lancelot, who he never let out of his sight, not even after one of his brothers ripped off an arm, or the cat started to use poor Lancelot as a scratching post. No matter what, he made sure he had his bear with him when he slept.
Now, whenever he spent a night apart from his lover, away from that hot, pulsating body which he called his boyfriend, he was plagued by insomnia, his arms felt empty and cold and his dreams were unpleasant. He'd sleep fitfully, if at all, and always awake with a scream on his lips. He'd just have to accept it: he could never be away from his Teddy.
