Chapter 9: The Traitor (part 2)
We walked around a corner and suddenly we could see a wide blueish-green river, flowing slowly, far downhill from us. "That's the Douro," said Adrian. "I love the walk down to the bridge. You'll see why in a second."
We walked down the curving road, which snaked back and forth so that it wasn't too steep. When we came around another bend, I put my hand to my mouth and gasped. Stretching down to the river was a beautiful terraced landscape of trees, winding lanes, and terracotta roofs. Many of the roofs belonged to partially collapsed or derelict buildings, and curling over almost everything in sight were more of those beautiful vines, all blooming with purple trumpet flowers. It might sound kind of weird, but it was all so beautiful that I actually felt tears come to my eyes.
Adrian didn't even ask what I thought. He just pulled me to him, and we stood looking out over the view with our arms around each other.
"You should paint this," I said, after a few minutes.
"Maybe I will," he said. He looked at me and gestured downhill with his head, and we began walking down towards the bridge again.
"When I was here a few years ago with some friends of mine," Adrian said as we walked, "they didn't get it. They wanted to go straight on to Lisbon after only a day or two. Don't get me wrong – I like Lisbon, actually. I like all of Portugal when you get down to it. But for me? Porto is where it's at. When my friends left for Lisbon, I went with them, but a few days later, I just came back up here."
"By yourself?" I asked. I had trouble imagining Adrian alone in a strange city.
"Yeah. Weird, huh? I just missed Porto. Maybe it's the sadness that I like. I bet you never would have thought that I'd like a sad place. But it isn't only sadness. It's a sort of pride, like you said. I don't know."
We walked down to the level of the bridge, hand in hand, chatting about Adrian's time in Porto and how he'd spent his evenings wandering the streets and going to hear the fado singers sing about lost love in Portuguese. His stories were always about evenings, nights, and occasionally dawns, and I was reminded of how, if left to his own devices, Adrian would choose a Moroi schedule of sleeping during the day and being awake at night. This reminded me of his sun-sensitivity, and just then I noticed that a little cloud seemed to be trailing along the sky above us, creating shade just for Adrian as we walked. I pursed my lips together to hide a smile.
"In the summer," Adrian said as we began to cross the bridge, "you'll see boys as young as ten or eleven jumping off this bridge. They swim to shore, scramble back up, and jump right back in. It's how they spend the day." He grinned. "Do you want try?"
"Maybe later," I said.
"I'd do it," he said. "But the water looks too cold."
"Of course," I said. "You're a bad-ass."
He winked at me in reply. "You know it, babe," he said.
"So, bad-ass, how's the painting going?" I asked.
"It's really good, actually," Adrian replied. "I've been doing a series featuring doors.… Doors in walls, doors in the air, doors in trees…. I don't know where I got the idea," he said, as a door appeared in the beam of the bridge as we passed. It shimmered, then disappeared again.
"I love the idea," I said. "Doors are always so evocative, thematically. Can I see the door paintings when I come over next time?" Adrian had gotten really cagey lately about letting me see his paintings, hiding them in his room when anyone came to visit.
"Well, since a bunch of people might be seeing several of them soon, you might as well be the first," he said. I asked him what that meant, and he explained. "There's an exhibition coming up and my professor wants me to show a few of my favorites. I was thinking I'd choose a few from my door series, because I obviously can't use the ones from my other series."
"What other series?" I asked, trying not to sound like I was prying. We had reached the other side of the bridge, and we started down a paved walkway towards the water.
"I've been doing paintings of you," he said, a little hesitantly. "But I can't exhibit those, obviously."
"Why not?" I asked. "You could just say that you did some portraits of your sister. That's not too weird."
"No one seeing those paintings would buy that you're my sister. Or if they did, they would think our family was really strange. It's too bad," he sighed. "I wish we were able to be more open, you know? Like other couples."
I didn't know what to say to that. It was impossible, right? It was like wishing that we could flap our arms and fly. So, I just agreed with him, and then asked if I could see some of the paintings he had done of me.
"Soon, you can," he said. "There's one I'm working on that I can't get right. When I finish it you can come see it."
"Ok," I said. His shyness touched me, since he was so rarely shy about anything. "I look forward to it."
We were very close to the river now, and we looked down into the greenish water to see dozens and dozens of huge fat fish. They seemed happy, swimming along slowly in a tight group, enjoying the day and each other's company. They also looked like they'd be delicious, a thought that made me feel slightly guilty.
"Those are some fat fish," said Adrian. "I don't know if I want to pet them, or catch them and eat them."
"I doubt they'd much enjoy either alternative," I pointed out.
"You and your logic," he said, and we laughed and walked on.
Up ahead, I could see a building with a huge sign sticking up from the roof. The sign showed just a single mysterious word – SANDEMAN – and featured a cut-out picture of a cloaked male figure in a flat black hat."What is that about?" I asked, pointing.
"That's the Sandeman logo. The figure is the Sandeman... guy. He's their mascot or symbol or whatever. I think he looks like Tuxedo Mask, but with a glass of port instead of a rose." I thought about asking who Tuxedo Mask was, and then decided not to bother. "I guess Sandeman is the most well known brand of port," Adrian went on. "People like the mascot, I think. But it's not the best port, if you ask me. Hey, have you ever even had port?"
"Well, considering that I'm not an old Englishman with a monocle and a top hat, no," I said.
"You haven't lived until you've had a good 30- or 40-year-old port," Adrian said. "You wouldn't believe it. Come on, this section of town, Vila Nova de Gaia, is where they keep the really good port. See all the boats?"
Up ahead, the river, which now was on our right, was full of flat wooden boats. "Are they for transporting the wine?" I asked.
"They were, a long time ago," Adrian said. "Now the wine goes on trucks, and these cute boats are just for tourists. Kind of sad, really. But there's still plenty of port around here. Let's go raid the cellars."
Adrian led me to a large building that was down a small alley. We went through a doorway, a sign above which advertised port wine tastings, then down hallways lined with enormous wooden casks, presumably full of port. There was a sweet, damp smell to the air that was actually sort of nice.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked as we walked.
"I told you. We're going to raid their cellars. Here we are, we're getting to the retail section."
We came up a ramp to an area that was looked to be a sort of combination cafe and gift shop. There were several small round tables with chairs and there was an area with a cash register and a selection of bottles of wine on shelves.
"Did we have to go through this trouble?" I asked lightly as Adrian brought us over to the shelves. "We could have just made some appear, poof. Like we usually do."
"No, we're really going to get them from the source," Adrian said, looking through the bottles. "Things are always more real in these dreams when you're involved. Here – these ones. Will you take this one, please?" He handed me a bottle and picked up a few himself.
"Ok," I said, wondering if somewhere in Porto, bottles of port wine were disappearing in front of people's eyes. "What now?"
Adrian grinned. "Let's go for a picnic on one of the boats!"
"Oh, we should," I said. "You love boats."
He stopped short when I said that, and for a split-second, I thought he was angry at me or something, or that maybe it was the spirit darkness coming back. But he gave me a sly smile, putting his bottles of wine down on the counter, then taking mine from me and putting it down as well. "Yes," he said. He rested his hands on my shoulders and looked right in my eyes. "It's boats that I love." The sly smile faded, replaced by a look so intense, I thought he was trying to see through me. "I feel so proud and lucky that I have boats in my life. Every day I wake up and think, 'Wow. If I can see boats today, if I can have some time with boats, it'll be a good day.' Because I really, really, really love boats." There still wasn't the slightest trace of laughter in his expression, and I felt sort of stunned.
I stammered, "Wow. Um." What else could I say? In some ways, that was the most amazingly passionate declaration of love I'd ever heard. On the other hand, it was about boats. No it wasn't, said the Traitor, sounding exasperated, then added: You idiot. "Ok, not the time," I told it, in my head. Out loud, I repeated my brilliant, "Um. Wow."
"What? I'm just talking about boats." He gave me a brilliant smile and winked. "Let's go find a good one and go for a nice ride."
We picked up our port wine and walked outside, blinking a little in the bright sunlight. There were dozens of small boats docked all up and down this small stretch of the river, and as we got closer I was able to get a closer look at them. They were about twice as long, and four or five times as wide, as a gondola. They were mostly flat on top, but had cute curved front prows, like the tip of an elf's shoe.
"Oh!" I said, and jumped a little in surprise. "There's someone on that boat, riding on the prow." I pointed.
Adrian laughed. "Come on, Sage, that's not someone. That's the Sandeman guy again. He's just a statue or a dummy or something. The company is really pimping the heck out of their logo, isn't it?" I looked again. Yeah, it was the Sandeman guy, wrapped in his big black coat and leaning over his glass of port. He was apparently glued or nailed into place so that even the waves wouldn't knock him off the boat. "We should take that boat," Adrian said. "The Sandeman boat. It's too funny."
"Alright," I agreed. We went over to the dock and stepped on board. Adrian wanted me to start the boat up, but I was afraid to. When I did things in dreams, they had a weird way of turning real, and I didn't want to take the risk of boats going off their own in the real Douro river. So instead, I let Adrian do it. He stood inside the small covered at the front of the boat and waved his hand at the steering wheel and engine mount. The boat started up right away. He steered us out of the dock, then set the boat on auto-steer, a feature I felt pretty sure didn't actually come standard on a boat like this. Or any boat, really.
"So," said Adrian, walking us to the back of the boat."Let me be tour guide. Ummm... Ok. These boats, I forget what they're called, but they were for transporting the port wine from where they make it, which is inland, out here to Porto, so that rich English people can buy it."
"I see," I said.
As he spoke, he was conjuring up a picnic table with a shady parasol over it. "And like I said, now they use trucks instead, but people still like the boats, so they keep them around," he said, changing the color on the parasol a few times, and studying the effect. He finally decided on green. "Oh! And, Sage, this part I'm good at, 'cause I went to the port wine tour every day when I was here, assuming I woke up on time for the last tour." He grinned at me. "They give you lots of port at the end of the tour," he said. "Sometimes I'd go on several tours a day, at each of the different companies."
"Naturally," I said.
"And then, after going on the tour so many times, I actually learned how they make port! Do you know how they make port?"
"I know the basic chemistry of fermentation," I said. "but I didn't study alcoholic production growing up."
"Can't understand why not," Adrian said, pleasantly, sitting down at the table, which now had a cushioned bench along one side. I joined him. "It's terribly useful. Ok, so normally, the fermentation process involves a lot of the sugar turning into alcohol, right?" he said.
He kept on talking, but I sort of tuned out what he was saying. It was something about how port wine makers added more sugar, which kept the port extra alcoholic, but also extra strong. As he continued talking, I leaned forward and kissed his cheek, his jaw, his neck. And then... well, I sort of didn't stop.
"Hey!" he said.
"Go on," I said. "I'm fascinated." I actually was sort of interested, especially when he got to the part about the chemical reactions involved in creating the wine, but he was so cute, being informative for once, and I just couldn't resist him. Plus, this was a rare opportunity to get him back for all the times he'd done this to me. After a bit, he gave up, and we collapsed for a while on the bench.
"Ok, ok," he said, when we pulled ourselves away from each other. "Picnic time."
He stood up and busily set up the table with a full spread: the bottles of port, several glasses, and some plates with little bits of sausage, sliced cheese, and crackers. "We're going to do a port tasting," he said. "It's very cultural. So you can't object."
"I wouldn't dream of objecting," I said.
"Alright. We're only going to taste two kinds, though, because why waste time? One lower-quality kind, and one really good kind. Here's a golden port, for my golden-eyed girl." He opened the tiny bottle and poured a small amount of a thick golden-colored liquid into two small short-stemmed glasses, and held one out to me. "Taste this," he said, and I did. It tasted so sweet, I was surprised. I had never really liked wine, but this was good."This tastes kind of like raisins," I said. "But in a good way."
"This is the cheap stuff," Adrian said, "but I quite like it. It's nothing on the good stuff, but it's got its own charm. They call it Lagrimas de Cristo."
"Does that mean 'the tears of Christ'?" I asked.
"That's what it means, apparently. I didn't know you spoke Portuguese."
"I don't, but I do read Latin and speak French and Spanish. They're all quite similar." I took another sip of the orangey-yellow wine. Wow, it was good. You couldn't exactly guzzle it or anything, but I did want to keep sipping it.
"I bet you could learn Portuguese quickly if you needed to, huh?" Adrian said.
"Languages have long been a strong point for me," I said. "But I don't see much need to learn Portuguese. It's spoken in very few parts of the world, and where it's spoken, Spanish is generally spoken as well."
"Well, what if we wanted to go to Porto for real?" Adrian asked. "Portuguese could be useful."
"I'd like to really go here sometime," I said. "I don't know when that could happen." I suddenly noticed that Adrian had used the word 'we.' Was he planning on really hopping on a plane with me?
"You'll want to be here even more after you taste this," Adrian said, pouring some port from one of the larger bottles into a new glass for me. It was a rich brown color, almost the color of cola, and when I sniffed it, it smelled like cinnamon and honey, with a sort of raisin-scent underneath. "This is the 40-year-old stuff," Adrian said. "I grabbed two bottles of it because, well... Taste it." He was watching me closely. I took a sip, and wow, it tasted even better than it smelled. I had thought the Lagrimas was good, but this was out of this world. I rolled it around in my mouth, and the taste kept changing, from honey to vanilla to orange blossom. I swallowed it and the taste kept changing in my mouth, cinnamon and chocolate and hazelnut. It was like every good flavor in one sip. "Holy heaven," I muttered.
"It's crazy, right?" Adrian said. "It's like some sort of Willy Wonka bullshit. It keeps tasting different, and it always seems to taste like whatever you like best."
I took another sip, delighting in the tastes. "I don't know who Willy Wonka is," I said. "But if he makes port, I like him."
"He's a friend of Sandemon's," said Adrian, and gestured to our friend on the prow.
"I can't believe I like port," I said, after another few sips.
"Well, I'd say that you can thank me now, but maybe you won't thank me when you find out that I've just given you a taste for something incredibly expensive. This stuff costs easily 150 bucks a bottle." I almost spat out my mouthful, but it was way too good to spit out. Adrian laughed at the look on my face. "So here's one more reason to love a spirit dream: we can indulge our finer tastes."
We sipped at the port, occasionally having a bit of sausage or cheese, as we sailed up the river. Adrian conjured up a comfy couch we sat down in it, watching the scenery, his arm around me. The umbrella moved over to shade us over here as well.
The view of the river bank from the boat was fascinating. Many of the buildings we could see looked to be in an advanced state of decay. Some were just stony foundations, while others still displayed bits of roof and siding. Many of them were covered in purple trumpet flowers, and I was amazed. "It's nature, triumphing over the works of man," I said.
"And making it better," said Adrian.
One valiant little house got my attention, and I pointed it out to Adrian. The house – or what was left of it – stood on a slight promontory, and I could imagine a time in which it would have been the pride and joy of its inhabitants, who would have awoken every morning to look down on the shining river below them. But now most of the interior had decayed, and a huge tree grew from inside, bursting through the roof. The boughs of the tree almost looked like they were creating a new roof for the building.
"I wish I could live there," I said. "Tree and all. It's so cute."
"We could just sleep in a hammock or something," agreed Adrian. "And wake up looking down on the water."
"Yeah," I said, dreamily. I was starting to feel all the port. "We'd water the tree to keep it healthy. And maybe plant tomatoes along one of the walls. And grapes. And maybe melons."
"I could get a job doing something dumb – like working as a waiter or something," said Adrian. "I'd get great tips because I'm so charming and handsome. And though you're gorgeous yourself, you could do something smart, like translate papers, or fix cars."
"You wouldn't need a dumb job either," I said. "You'll be a famous painter. And we'll have a boat of our own, and go sailing up and down the river."
The boat sailed past another derelict building. This was looked entirely made out of stone, and it was much larger than the little house. It looked elegant and sprawling, and I wanted to wander around its stony ruins.
"Look at that place," I said, pointing to it. "We could fix that place up too."
"We could open a nightclub," suggested Adrian. I understood why he had said that, since it looked like it had once been a restaurant or nightclub. There were many large outdoor terraces that looked down on the water, and I could imagine it covered with Christmas tree lights, and people standing outside holding glasses of champagne and dancing, the air coming from the river cooling them on a hot summer night.
"It wouldn't be stodgy," I said. "Everyone would be welcome." I took another sip of the port, and let the flavors dance on my tongue for a bit.
"Yes," said Adrian. "Moroi, both royal and non, and human. No Strigoi allowed, though. I mean, we have to have some standards."
"Right," I said. "We'd just hang a sign." I held up my hands as if hanging a sign to a wall. "It would say, 'No Strigoi Allowed, Sincerely, the Management.'" I wasn't drunk, exactly, since you can't drink port too quickly, but I had a warm, floaty feeling.
"Yes, that's only fair. Although they would be allowed if they were nice, and just wanted to be restored. We would keep a few charmed silver stakes around, just in case. No charge for restoration." He thought about that. "Or maybe a small one. Two-drink minimum for any Strigoi who want to be restored. I think that's fair."
"Just be really specific about what kind of drink you mean," I said, and we started to laugh. I know it's weird that we were laughing about Strigoi, but... I don't know. For me at least, it sort of relieved some of the tension that I'd been carrying around since the attack months ago. The image of a bunch of Strigoi somehow lining up to meekly be restored to their original state made me smile, what can I say?
"Well, Strigoi or no," Adrian said. "It'd be nice. To have a club, to live in that crazy tree house, just... be here, together." He paused. "We could really do that, you know," he added, extremely casually. "You know. Live here."
"Maybe in five years," I said, laughing.
"Or five months," said Adrian. He pulled me back into a kiss that lasted for a long time. "Or five weeks," he murmured into my ear.
I felt myself melting. "Or maybe in five hours," I sighed.
Adrian grinned. "Not five hours," he said. "Porto has to be at least an eight or nine hour flight from LAX, and we can't count on a direct flight."
I pulled back. "Wait, are you serious?"
"Well, I'm not serious about the night club idea, exactly. And well, that tree-house does look a little bit damp. And of course, we probably couldn't leave tonight or anything. I guess we have to stick around and look after Jailbait for a little while longer. But… maybe someday, we could go somewhere together. Porto's not a bad idea. There aren't a lot of Moroi in Porto, and that means there probably wouldn't be a lot of alchemist activity, either. Or Strigoi, for that matter. We could kind of just settle down. Get a little place. Get jobs. Maybe get... I don't know, just have a lovely little life together."
"That all sounds really nice, Adrian," I said, trying to remember to keep breathing. "But... let's be realistic."
"I am being realistic. I talked about getting jobs and stuff – isn't that being realistic? If I weren't realistic, I would keep on about the nightclub idea. Although I'm not convinced that that's actually a bad idea..."
"Adrian, don't joke," I said. "Listen, I can't just leave with you. We're not... It's not in the cards for us to be together like that."
"Wait," he said, sitting up straighter. "You mean, it's not in the cards for us to go somewhere together? Or that it's not right for us to be together, period?"
"You know," I said, miserably. "You know how it is for us."
"This is what I know," he said. "There are only two possibilities." He held up one finger. "One: We keep seeing each other. Or two," and he held up a second finger, "we break up. I don't know what you think about that, but that second option sounds really shitty to me."
"We can't keep seeing each other forever," I said.
"So you want to break up, then?" he asked. His face was hard to read.
"No! Of course not! … I just am a realist."
"What do you see happening then?" he asked.
"I don't know. I just sort of thought it'd take care of itself."
"Things don't take care of themselves," he said. "I sort of learned that from you, Sage."
"I just thought..." What had I thought? "I guess I thought you'd dump me eventually."
He was quiet for a moment, then he asked, in a very soft voice, "Why would I dump you?"
"I don't know. I know I'm not... you know, fun. I don't get drunk. I mean, maybe I'm a little drunk right now, but..."
"You are fun, drunk or not," he said. "I never had so much fun. And not the kind of fun where I'm sort of trying to look like I'm having lots of fun, and really, I sort of just want to go home and watch TV or something. Like, real fun."
"But I'm not one of those gorgeous skinny Moroi girls you're used to."
"If I wanted a Moroi girl, I could probably find one. But I'm happy where I am, with the gorgeous human in front of me." He paused. "And Sydney, I've got to ask you..."
"What?"
"Why do you think it's important that the Moroi girls are skinny? Do you think that you're not skinny? Because you really are. In fact, if anything you're a little too skinny. I've told you that."
I stiffened. "I'm fine," I said. Who was he to question my body? I had it under control.
"Are you sure you're fine? I –"
"I said I'm fine. Thank you." I squeezed my eyes shut. "Can we like, not talk about these things? Because we're supposed to be having a nice day, not talking about things like... the future, or whether I'm skinny or fat, or things like that."
I felt Adrian took both my hands in his. "Sweetheart," he said, his voice serious. "You're not at all fat."
I opened my eyes to see those gorgeous green ones looking at me with so much concern that I had to look away.
"What is this 'sweetheart' business?" I said, because I couldn't think of what else to say. Why was he pretending that I wasn't fat? It was so obvious that I was. I had lost a few pounds since he and I had started dating, but it wasn't enough, and he had to know that.
"I don't know. It just came out," he said.
It was so cute that I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tight. "Let's not fight," I said. "Come on, it's a beautiful day."
"It is," he agreed. "And I don't want to fight. But someday we're going to have to talk about these things."
"Ok," I said. "Just... not today."
"When?" he asked.
"After the volleyball quarterfinals," I said. "Let me get through that."
"Ok," he said, after he'd thought about it. "That'll do."
I hugged him tightly. "I'm trying," I said, when I leaned back again. "I'm not good at this. And I'm not good at... not being good at something."
Adrian smiled and brushed the hair out of my face. "I've never really been good at this, either," he said. "I'm figuring it out as we go along, too."
"You had girlfriends before," I said.
"But not like this," he said. "Not even... you know. Rose."
"Oh," I said, and we were quiet for a while, sailing down the river. Then we both looked up and saw that the sky had turned pink. Adrian gestured up to the front of the boat. There was a door standing in the little covered area by the steering wheel, not far from our friend Sandeman. Adrian picked up an unopened bottle of port, and taking my hand with his free one, pulled me gently toward the door. I was glad to be going to Adrian's room, but in some ways I was sad to leave Porto, which made no sense. Nothing you do makes sense, muttered the Traitor. "God, will you ever shut up?" I asked it.
We stepped through the door, and Adrian closed it behind us. He put the bottle down on his beside table. "Wouldn't it be great if this were here in the morning?" he said. "Now that would be a trick." I didn't know what to say. I wondered if it would be. I didn't always wake up with dream-residue, and in fact, some of the time when I'd sort of hoped to be able to keep things, I'd woken up without them. There didn't seem to be rhyme or reason to when it happened and when it didn't.
Adrian sat down on his bed and started taking off his shoes. I put the idea of weird dream magic firmly from my mind and began rooting through Adrian's dresser drawers.
"What are you doing?" he asked. He was pulling off his jeans as he spoke.
"I'm looking for something to wear." I pulled out one of Adrian's t-shirts, one of his favorites, and then closed the dresser drawer. The shirt was a light heather gray, and had been washed so many times that it was soft and worn through in spots. I held it up to Adrian and he eyed it with amusement. I turned my back on him and quickly changed, then kicked my jeans off. They were fitting more loosely these days, thank god. The shirt was long enough to come down to my mid-thigh. I felt Adrian's eyes on me the whole time, but, well, he had seen me in just my bra before, so it couldn't be that exciting for him, right?
Wrong. When I turned around, he was already right there. He could move so fast sometimes! He picked me up and spun me around, my arms around his neck, my legs flying. I found myself giggling like a little kid.
Then he put me down on the bed, gently, and crawled up on top of me. "I like the shirt," he said in my ear. "It looks better on you than it does on me." He was in only his boxers by now, and the feel of his bare skin against me was intoxicating. I was a little dizzy from the spinning, and I was soon even dizzier from the kiss he gave me. As his mouth trailed down to my neck, one of his hands moved up my thigh, under the shirt, up to my waist. He ran one finger just under the waistline of my underwear, going no further, thought the suggestion was clear. I made a little moaning sound, trying to communicate that he shouldn't go any further. He leaned back a little and lay on one elbow, looking me in the eye, then brought his hand back down to my thigh, brushing the front of my underwear very gently as he did. I gasped – he had brushed across a sensitive spot. A really sensitive spot. Something about the look in his eyes told me that it hadn't been an accident.
I pulled him back on top of me, kissing him intensely. He leaned his head back to take a deep breath and I attacked his neck, loving the salty taste of his skin, the faint traces of his cologne. I found myself biting him, very gently at first, then a little bit harder as I began to lose control. I didn't break skin, not even close, but I pulled back, afraid I'd hurt him.
"Sydney," he half-whispered, half-groaned. "Why'd you stop?"
"I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, no, it felt amazing." He took a deep breath, then looked me in the eye. "Listen, do you trust me?"
"Yes," I said, without hesitation. You trust him with your life, whispered the Traitor, and I shushed it.
"Let me do to you what you were doing to me," he whispered. "I won't use my fangs, I promise. Then you'll know how good it felt."
"Ok," I said quickly, before I could second-guess myself.
He kissed me on the lips, then trailed kisses down, past my ears to my neck. His tongue traced a small circle, and then I felt his front teeth close very gently on my neck, drawing it slightly into his mouth. It didn't hurt, but it was so intense that I sucked in my breath and dug my fingers into his back. He did it again, and again, kissing and gently biting my neck, up and down. He was careful not to let his fangs scratch me. I clutched at him more tightly, moving my hips against him, feeling that feeling again, knowing that I was pressing against him in a sensitive area too. We had never gotten this intense, ever, not even in those Thursday make-out sessions. I actually heard myself make a strange, high pitched noise like an animal. He pulled away slightly and I opened my eyes. "Why'd you stop?" I stammered.
He kissed me gently on the cheek. "I had to stop while I still could." He gave a mock-growl and squeezed me as tight as he could, almost squeezing the air out of me. Then he rolled off of me, onto his back. "I'm going to go crazy if we keep this up," he said, and propped himself on one elbow, looking at me. I did the same, and he reached out to trace a line up and down my arm with one finger. "That was... wow. Sydney." He gave me a goofy grin, then his face turned more serious again. "Thanks for trusting me," he added. "It means a lot."
It did mean a lot, I realized. In the two and a half months or so we'd been together, the chemistry hadn't diminished a bit, like I had heard happened with couples. It had actually grown, and more importantly, the trust, the closeness, had grown even more.
We both were still breathing heavily, and I was fighting the urge to just pull him into another kiss, to start it all up again. I knew I couldn't, but I wanted to. I wanted him to run his hand up my thigh again – I wouldn't stop him this time. I wanted him to say what he had been about to say at the cloisters – I wouldn't stop him from doing that this time, either. I felt so full of... something, I could almost burst. I felt like a water balloon of emotion. Go on, whispered the Traitor. The voice actually sounded kind of nice, for once. Encouraging. Tell him. Open your mouth and let the words out. "Maybe I will," I thought back at myself.
"Um, Adrian?" I said, very softly.
"Hmm?" he said.
"I just wanted to say thank you for taking me to Porto."
"You are very welcome, my golden-eyed girl," he said.
"And um, I wanted to tell you that I also, sort of, um. I sort of love boats, too."
Adrian took a deep breath. Then he said, "Sort of?" He sounded wary.
"Not sort of. Um. I love boats."
"Do you really?" he asked. The sound of his voice, like always, soothed me. It was like honey dripping slowly down a spoon.
"Really," I said. "I always feel so free and happy, when I'm around boats."
"Of course," he said. "That's what boats are for."
"And when I'm around boats, I feel like anything is possible."
"So, you really like boats, then." Adrian smiled at me. "That's good to know."
"You know what I mean," I said.
"Hmm," he said. "I might."
"Then I guess we should go to sleep," I said, not sure what else to say. I felt a low ache deep in my body, the remnant of desire, and I was pretty sure he must feel that too, maybe even worse. I wanted to say something about it, but I didn't know what to say. So I just kissed him very gently, reaching automatically into his mind to adjust away some of the lingering spirit darkness. He didn't seem to notice, but he hardly ever reacted when I did this for him.
"I guess we should," he agreed, and stroked the hair away from my face. "I'll miss you when I wake up," he added. We cuddled up close, and he whispered in my ear: "I am sure that boats really appreciate how you feel about them. I'm sure that boats know that you are doing your best. And boats... really love it when you ride on them." I pretended to hit him in the arm, and then he squeezed me tighter. "Goodnight, Sydney," he said.
"Goodnight," I said. I lay there, my mind spinning a little. I couldn't believe what I had told him. But I just couldn't have kept it in, even for one more moment. I felt better, having spoken.
I got into my normal spot, leaning my face on the bare skin of his chest, one of my legs wrapped around his waist. Despite the ache, despite the little fight before, despite the general impossibility of the situation, I didn't want to be anywhere else on earth right now. This was where I liked best: in Adrian's room, in Adrian's bed, in Adrian's arms, with nothing but the sound of his heart and the far-off sound of his ocean-noise generator. "I don't want to fall asleep," I thought. "I want to stay here, please just let me stay here."
And then...
I heard my phone's alarm going off. It was morning and I was back in my bed at Amberwood. I still felt wrapped up in Adrian – I could almost feel the pressure of his arms around me, could smell his cologne. I luxuriated in the memory, the affection, the feeling of warmth, the softness of his t-shirt...Wait, what?
I sat up with a start and looked down at myself. I was wearing Adrian's t-shirt – the one I had put on in the dream.
"Oh, no," I said aloud, then clapped my hand over my mouth. It was all going to come out now, I realized. The tank top I had worn to bed was lying on the floor. There was no sign of the bottle of port, thank God. Still, Adrian was going to notice that his shirt was gone. There was no way I could hide the situation from him any more.
You're hiding enough from him as it is, the Traitor pointed out. And I couldn't deny that the voice was right, since it was my own voice. It was my own voice in my own head, speaking the truth, and I knew it was long past time that I listened.
Updated September 8, 2012.