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BLOODSPELL: THE LONGEST NIGHT
Dec. 22nd, 2019 12:13 amThe nights are drawing in. Which has its drawbacks, like only seeing daylight through a window and freezing my tits off unless I get a lift home after class, but it has its advantages. Like overlapping sleep schedules finally getting to meet in the middle.
Dorian’s up when I come home, and with a student — last one of the year, I hope. I can hear them as I come up the stairs, some notes falling pretty-OK-by-my-old-standards, which is why I know it’s a student, because by my new standards, it’s not flawless and I know it’s not Dorian.
So I walk down the hall and take off my shoes by undoing the laces, like a civilised human being, and don’t just kick ‘em off and punt ‘em ahead of me like usual, and I let myself into the kitchenette through the other door, and I fix myself a cold drink even though I’m dying for something hot. Cohabitation is a million little sacrifices, day by day. But I sit there and I drink my juice and I can’t help but smile as they play on together, more familiar and confident fingers taking the lead, sketching the shape of the song with ninety years of practiced confidence, then backing off to let their student try and fill in the colour.
It’s still late. I zone out a little, and I don’t hear the doors click and swing, and I never hear Dorian walking unless they want to be heard. The next thing I know, D’s arms are burrowed under mine and they’re hugging me from the back.
“Thank you,” they say, and I wriggle around and take advantage of dating a shortass, planting a kiss on their forehead, just under their hairline. It’s cold, but after a walk in the dark at the ass end of December, so am I. “Rough day at the office?”
“’Tis the season of goodwill to all men,” I say back, “which does not extend to the girl behind the counter, apparently.”
“People can be so awful,” they tell me, giving a little tch of a breath. I must look worse than I think I do, because they squint up at me through those round dorky frames and say: “Sit thee down and tell me all thy troubles, darling.”
I flop down on the armchair facing the window and, while they fuss about in the kitchen, clattering about looking for the samovar and making everything just so, I let out the top twenty per cent of what’s hacking me off, starting with the racist sack of shit who’d insisted I’d bitched her out in ‘Paki’ — and it’s the laziness that really hurts, like she didn’t care enough to tell brown people apart — and working down my naughty list.
By the fourth entry, D’s sitting in my lap and stroking my hair and nodding at every “and another thing”, and when I’m done with the guy who spent ten minutes asking who owned the people who made everything on the shelves and didn’t even spend folding money, they nuzzle into my neck, just under the jaw on the left hand side, which is like an invisible switch that makes me lose all motor control, power of speech and basic dignity in one go.
“Better?” asks D, and I say something like “magurglesnorf” and then “you bastard” and then “a bit.” And then, because I am a good girlfriend, despite the rumours, I realise what’s going on here.
“You’ve not had breakfast, have you?”
“Stefan’s been for his jabs, so I told him cash was fine.”
“You’re a beastly little parasite,” I say, trying to pitch it like they do, that airy-fairy old-young lilt.
“I’ll make you dinner. Poulet yassa. Cross my heart.” Their tongue flickers across their lips, their front teeth, and my neck’s still tingling from a moment ago and I’m not quite as tired as I thought I was, not any more.
“… I stand by what I just said,” I say, “but I love you for it.”
And Dorian nuzzles into my neck again, meticulously kissing back and forth, two little pinpricks probing for a safe spot, and I shut my eyes and brace myself for a cool sharp scratch that makes me shiver right down to my bones.
They don’t take much. A juice box or so’s worth. A love bite that leaves a bruise — I’ll have to wear a high collar tomorrow — and a little cut that’ll be closed by midnight. Dorian rocks back and forth on my lap, kisses my throat again, and whispers another “thank you” into my ear.
Like I said. A million little sacrifices. But it’s worth it.
Bloodspell is available exclusively from itch.io, buy now beat the rush.
Dorian’s up when I come home, and with a student — last one of the year, I hope. I can hear them as I come up the stairs, some notes falling pretty-OK-by-my-old-standards, which is why I know it’s a student, because by my new standards, it’s not flawless and I know it’s not Dorian.
So I walk down the hall and take off my shoes by undoing the laces, like a civilised human being, and don’t just kick ‘em off and punt ‘em ahead of me like usual, and I let myself into the kitchenette through the other door, and I fix myself a cold drink even though I’m dying for something hot. Cohabitation is a million little sacrifices, day by day. But I sit there and I drink my juice and I can’t help but smile as they play on together, more familiar and confident fingers taking the lead, sketching the shape of the song with ninety years of practiced confidence, then backing off to let their student try and fill in the colour.
It’s still late. I zone out a little, and I don’t hear the doors click and swing, and I never hear Dorian walking unless they want to be heard. The next thing I know, D’s arms are burrowed under mine and they’re hugging me from the back.
“Thank you,” they say, and I wriggle around and take advantage of dating a shortass, planting a kiss on their forehead, just under their hairline. It’s cold, but after a walk in the dark at the ass end of December, so am I. “Rough day at the office?”
“’Tis the season of goodwill to all men,” I say back, “which does not extend to the girl behind the counter, apparently.”
“People can be so awful,” they tell me, giving a little tch of a breath. I must look worse than I think I do, because they squint up at me through those round dorky frames and say: “Sit thee down and tell me all thy troubles, darling.”
I flop down on the armchair facing the window and, while they fuss about in the kitchen, clattering about looking for the samovar and making everything just so, I let out the top twenty per cent of what’s hacking me off, starting with the racist sack of shit who’d insisted I’d bitched her out in ‘Paki’ — and it’s the laziness that really hurts, like she didn’t care enough to tell brown people apart — and working down my naughty list.
By the fourth entry, D’s sitting in my lap and stroking my hair and nodding at every “and another thing”, and when I’m done with the guy who spent ten minutes asking who owned the people who made everything on the shelves and didn’t even spend folding money, they nuzzle into my neck, just under the jaw on the left hand side, which is like an invisible switch that makes me lose all motor control, power of speech and basic dignity in one go.
“Better?” asks D, and I say something like “magurglesnorf” and then “you bastard” and then “a bit.” And then, because I am a good girlfriend, despite the rumours, I realise what’s going on here.
“You’ve not had breakfast, have you?”
“Stefan’s been for his jabs, so I told him cash was fine.”
“You’re a beastly little parasite,” I say, trying to pitch it like they do, that airy-fairy old-young lilt.
“I’ll make you dinner. Poulet yassa. Cross my heart.” Their tongue flickers across their lips, their front teeth, and my neck’s still tingling from a moment ago and I’m not quite as tired as I thought I was, not any more.
“… I stand by what I just said,” I say, “but I love you for it.”
And Dorian nuzzles into my neck again, meticulously kissing back and forth, two little pinpricks probing for a safe spot, and I shut my eyes and brace myself for a cool sharp scratch that makes me shiver right down to my bones.
They don’t take much. A juice box or so’s worth. A love bite that leaves a bruise — I’ll have to wear a high collar tomorrow — and a little cut that’ll be closed by midnight. Dorian rocks back and forth on my lap, kisses my throat again, and whispers another “thank you” into my ear.
Like I said. A million little sacrifices. But it’s worth it.
Bloodspell is available exclusively from itch.io, buy now beat the rush.
