The Big Cat

Arig watches De’Verro’s hands. He watches them closely, intently; it’s hard since there are six of them but he’s trying nonetheless. They hover then dash, pose then dance, passing cards like lifeblood. The performance appears as effortless as if he was moving the cards with his thoughts.
Arig watches the three pairs of hands and all that’s going through his head is that he can see them, but he can’t feel them. He can’t feel any of De’Verro, not the white blazer, not the overflowing stems, not the cocky smile. He’s a new face, a street magician in front of a captivated crowd. Even the Guardian of Earth himself is present, watching, guessing.
Who in the world is this man?

“Did you like the show?” a deep voice purrs behind Arig. The Guardian turns around and startles. De’Verro’s standing close. He could spread his long arms out and embrace Arig.
“Hi,” Arig says and steps away. De’Verro steps closer. A familiar dance.
“Well?” One syllable and Arig can still hear the purr. It reminds him of cat. A very, very big cat.
“I liked the show. You have deft hands,” Arig says and backs up again. De’Verro follows him, breaking his personal space.
“So I’m told,” he says. “You’re one of the Guardians, aren’t you? You’ve been coming pretty often lately. I hope I’m not in trouble.” He grins. “Sir.”
Arig tries stepping back one more time, slowly and deliberately, looking De’Verro in the eye. His back meets the wall. The big cat grins and closes the distance. Nope, clues won’t help here.
“You aren’t in trouble,” Arig says. “You’re new here, right? I’m Arig.”
“Nice to meet you,” De’Verro says and extends one of his six hands toward Arig. “I am De’Verro.”
No amount of purring will help you, big cat.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Arig says and presses De’Verro’s hand. Skin-to-skin contact feels normal. De’Verro’s grip is tight. Arig tries to respond but he can only match the giant’s pressure. No telekinesis without extended touch. No super strength. De’Verro still looks slightly surprised. Flexing his fist he observes:
“You have a hand of iron.”
“I’m the Guardian of Earth.”
“I thought you were the Guardian of Flowers.”
Arig grimaces. “Please don’t call me that.”
De’Verro grins.

Arig’s battle for personal space is one of the constants in his life. No one knows why he keeps such a distance from people and, without an explanation, few bother to respect the distance he likes to keep. He can’t tell them it feels like being brushed up against, like being touched against his permission. He can’t explain his extended touch to them. And so he bears the unwanted groping day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute, resigned and frustrated and judging very carefully if he’s had enough and he should just leave.
With De’Verro, whom he doesn’t feel at all, everything is different.
De’Verro quickly discovers that Arig jerks when he’s touched unexpectedly and the loss of decorum amuses him to no end. He touches Arig all the time – from the back, from the sides, from his blind spots; no matter how careful Arig is, six hands are simply too many to keep track of. It irritates Arig. It confuses him. Why can’t he feel De’Verro right until the moment they touch? It’s been weeks and he still has no answer. He doesn’t like being at someone’s mercy like this.
But De’Verro smiles and purrs and strokes Arig’s shoulder and the Guardian is starting to wonder if he shouldn’t just accept this two-faced gift of fate.
De’Verro has a mischievous side to him, but he’s also a man with a dream and lives in the present with the luxurious laziness of the feline. His hands… Quater, Arig is starting to like it when his hands touch him. Being tactile is new to him. It doesn’t make sense. It’s unlike anything he has ever felt before. De’Verro’s exploiting a loophole that never existed before.
De’Verro is unlike anything Arig has ever seen before.

His six hands are silk. They are satin. They are sugar. They are wood. They are fireworks. They are deep, deep waters of the indigo blue.
Tactile. Arig would never have called himself tactile. Quite the opposite, actually. He hates being touched. He always has.
Once warm, once cool. Once feather-light, once hammer-like. De’Verro’s hands knead and reshape. Arig can feel himself take on a new shape, one unlike ever before.
It feels so good.

Candles fill the room with warm, flickering light. The bath fizzes lazily. Arig takes a deep breath and the scent of lavender permeates his whole being.
“You’ve just rocked my world,” De’Verro says. The admiration in his voice is both surprised and grateful.
“I was too loud,” Arig mumbles.
“I loved how loud you were,” De’Verro says.
“Hm.” A moment of hesitation, then Arig turns on his side and hugs De’Verro, resting his head on his chest. One of De’Verro’s hands comes to rest in his stems, another wraps around his shoulders. He’s so big. He’s too big. A panther, a tiger, with its prey tucked up neatly by its side.
“I wouldn’t mind staying like this,” De’Verro says in a joking tone.
“Why couldn’t we stay like this?”
De’Verro chuckles. “You’re right,” he says. He still sounds like he can’t believe it.
Arig snuggles in closer, and even though it’s unlike anything he’s ever known, he drifts off to sleep on De’Verro’s warm, silky, singular chest.


     

Zpět na povídky