He used to have nightmares. Or were they memories, of his unwanted guest? Were the fires that fell like a pack of crimson wolves the demon inside, or were they merely a figment of his pained imagination? When he woke in the night, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat, it scarcely seamed to matter. It doesn't matter now, either, and he bites his lip to hold back the unmanly tears, even though he's alone. He wonders where his lover is, off to wander again in the lonely night. He wishes bitterly for those dark, cold eyes that hold fire only for him, even for that polished shell of frozen glass. More than that, he wishes for the soft touch on his cheek, the gruff voice telling him not to cry, to go back to sleep. That same voice, rough as few have ever heard it, not singing—chanting softly the old children's rhyme that both of them remember but neither of them admit to knowing. He wishes for that gentle hand weaving through his hair, and the brush of lips against his forehead. As his sits there wishing, someone knocks at the door. His pale lover smiles, and comes in.
