And stars are breaking through
Then out of my dreams I'll go
Into a dream
With you.
-- Rodgers and Hammerstein, 'Out of My Dreams' Oklahoma!
The bed is a mess, but he is sleeping like a baby. I suppose, after a manner of speaking, he's my baby, so that's only appropriate. He's so pretty with that tousled, fair hair and his long eyelashes. If I wasn't sitting up to get a better look at him, I'd snuggle him all night long. I feel like a proud father -- a rather incestuous father, perhaps, but still, when he sleeps there is something about him that makes me feel as though I need to take care of him. He is so different when he is unconscious in my bed. I can almost forget that his waistcoat smells of gunpowder because he was out collecting it this afternoon. He is such a little boy, let him play with his guns, I can't believe that he's capable of hurting anyone. Not this child. The Greeks loved their boys, and they would have loved him best. If I ruffle his hair, I doubt that he will wake, and how could I avoid running my fingers through his fine, golden locks?
I can hold him close now and whisper the endearments I've withheld all evening into the pearly pink shell of his ear. Ah, mon petit chou, vous étés exquis, mon confident, mon très impressionnant. Stay with me forever, my beloved; hold me close and let me listen to your heartbeat. I know he is no statue at this hour of the night. He is the inverse of Cinderella: midnight takes away the daily grime, the pains of university life, and gives him to me, shining from every pore with love and no small amount of lust. This is perfection in a small, cheap room, with him quiet in my arms, accepting my embrace. He needs me at this hour, and I need him.
When rosy-fingered Dawn pushes her way through the curtains, he pushes back the sheets and smacks my arm until I wake up. I blink and tell him to go to the devil. He's not the only one with a hangover here, and if he's not going to be civil, well, there are plenty of other darling boys in Paris.