Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
SHARD
It’s a gift, Rooney allowing my touch to linger.
My hand shakes tracing the contour of his jaw; it’s the first time I’ve touched someone so beautiful, human or otherwise.
As if drawn in by gravitational force, I lean down, starving for the taste of his lips.
I’ve only had them once, and never in this body.
Keeping my distance has been agonizing, but it’s important Rooney desire closeness at least half as much as I do.
To my elation, he tips his chin the slightest incline, putting his mouth in the path of my own. I hesitate a fraction of an inch before my lips brush his, concerned about the lingering taste of the shattered soul my body rejected. I don’t want it coming in contact with Rooney’s skin.
Before I can focus on a cleansing pass of energy, Rooney jerks forward, hissing.
Our chests collide, but not in a desirous way; the ectoplasm has oozed across the floor enough for the edge of the puddle to graze Rooney’s boot.
Foul and toxic, the substance makes quick work of burning through the leather, that revolting bastard’s desire for my precious jewel lingering even after obliteration.
Against my resolution to not touch Rooney without his explicit consent, I scoop him into my arms without thinking, sacrificing a larger-than-usual soul fragment to fizzle the boot out of existence rather than allow it to further harm his skin.
Rooney’s eyes widen. If devouring the man about to assault him hadn’t already exposed my lack of humanity, this would have obliterated my secret.
Had I cared to, I might have allowed him to think the encounter was another drug-induced hallucination.
Explaining away the physical disappearance of an object would cross the border of mystery into gaslighting, and no. Never.
Now Rooney will either descend into panic and reject me, or…
Well, whatever he chooses, I’ll respect. Even if it results in agony like none I’ve experienced during my time in the mortal dimension.
“I’ll get you another pair,” I say, clumsy in my panic.
Rooney stares at me for an infinity, before laughing, a tinge of hysteria fraying the sound. “You can get me the fuck out of here, is what you can do.”
I bundle him tighter against my chest, breathing the words, “By your lips, thus shapes my being.” It’s an ancient oath, pure devotion distilled into a few simple sounds…the weight of which Rooney will not understand.
As expected, his brows tick upward, but I avoid questioning by promptly slipping our bodies through the dimensional layers between which I was formed.
When we arrive at my apartment—nice, but nowhere near as lavish as the fetid creature congealing on his own floor—Rooney shoots me a pointed look.
I don’t suppose he’s surprised I didn’t take him back to his own living space, but he doesn’t comment.
He doesn’t say anything at all, actually.
Unusually placid, he allows me to clean him and strip him of his clothes, soured by fear, then tuck him into my unused bed.
I don’t join him. Physical sleep isn’t something my being requires, but more than that, I don’t want Rooney to feel unsafe.
I’m not going to remove him from one predatory situation only to slip him into another.
Rooney sleeps solidly for thirteen hours. I watch over him from across the room, never looking away until I sense him beginning to stir. I disappear then, the spot where I sat occupied by a stack of clothing items for him to choose from.
After rolling out of bed, a half-asleep Rooney disappears into the ensuite bathroom to shower.
I covered the vanity in every hygienic product I could think of him needing, including some others that I didn’t find while examining his belongings, but thought he might like.
I haven’t any idea what he selects because I leave him to his privacy, even though we both know I could snoop if I wanted.
And it’s not that I don’t want to watch him, but I crave his trust over filling the voyeuristic desire to always be near him.
Never before in my long, long existence, have I cared so much about endearing myself to another being, whether like or unlike myself.
Infatuation this rich is rare for my species, maybe even unprecedented.
We are few, and asocial by nature. I haven’t seen any of my kin since I mistakenly slithered into this dimension and decided to stay.
Fretting and restless in a way I’m wholly unaccustomed to, I put myself to the task of seeing to Rooney’s other needs.
Rest, clothes…food. I don’t eat—the soulshards I shave from humans provide me sustenance—so my first attempt to manifest something edible results in an unpleasant mash, one I quickly dissolve before it can be witnessed.
Fortunately, Rooney takes long showers. After seeking ideas from the building’s other inhabitants, I borrow contents from a neighbor’s fridge and, faced with no other options, teach myself to fry an egg.
I’m trying to figure out what to do with a slice of burnt toast and hard, cold butter when Rooney emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a pair of baggy sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, its hemline dripping halfway down his thighs.
The items I set out would have fit perfectly; these are items he pulled from my drawers.
Seeing him draped in my clothing causes a feeling I don’t know how to name to surge in my chest.
Rooney’s gaze flicks from me to the plate of poorly cooked eggs next to the toaster, there and back twice, before he pads over and plucks the burned toast from my nervous grasp.
He meets my eyes, unblinking, and crunches his teeth into the charred bread.
He doesn’t break his stare even once, leaving me oddly paralyzed where I’ve been left leaning against the counter.
Once he swallows, he lingers a moment longer, then asks, “Could I have a glass of water?”
That, I can do.
By the time I’ve materialized a glass and filled it with cool water from the fridge, Rooney has tucked into the eggs, using the toast as a makeshift implement.
Because why would I have forks when I don’t eat?
This whole apartment is a show just for him.
I didn’t expect to feel so off-kilter finally having Rooney here, whereas he seems completely at ease, as if he’s figured something out and I’m not yet privy to what.
“So, you’re not human,” Rooney says after swallowing a large gulp of water and wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve.
I gawp for a moment, but eventually concede, “I’m not.”
“Are you going to hurt me?”
The question chills me to my core. Surging forward, I catch Rooney’s waist with one hand and cradle his cheek with the other. “I couldn’t fathom such a thing.”
Rooney shrugs. “Just had to check,” he explains. Then he brushes me off and goes back to eating.
Upon finishing, Rooney puts the plate in the sink, but doesn’t wash it. He doesn’t have to, because I’ll simply dematerialize it later. He does rinse his hands and mouth, then dries with the shirt again, because I haven’t provided any napkins or paper towel, damn it all. This is a disaster.
A pause follows. Rooney stands before me, examining me as one would an unusual bug. I’ve never felt so small before, an insignificant little creature, unworthy of the attention it’s drawn.
Just before I give in and beg to know what he’s thinking, Rooney traces the line of my exposed forearm with his fingertips.
I shudder, flexing my hand when he reaches the rolled-up cuff tucked above my elbow.
A flicker of a smile takes Rooney’s lips, but I don’t have time to be pleased, because a moment later he drops to his knees.
Rooney’s hands go to the fastening of my slacks, deftly popping the top button. By the time I remember how to move my limbs, he’s slid free the clasps securing the fly; fortunately, he doesn’t get the zipper down fully before I catch both his narrow hands in one of my own.
Swallowing hard, I ask in a bone-dry rasp, “What are you doing, Rooney?”
He sits back on his heels and scowls at me. “You ever heard of a blowjob?”
“I— Yes, of course I have. But you don’t have to do that.”
Rooney pushes his damp bangs back from his forehead. I resist the urge to smooth the tangle this creates. “Of course I do. That’s what you’re after, right?”
I realize, a sickness flooding from my core outward, that Rooney believes my intentions to be no different than the little man who tried to violate him.
If I hadn’t already vomited him up and spent half the night scrubbing my being from the aftertaste of his soul, I would have choked on the last mouthful.
“No,” I say emphatically, pulling Rooney to his feet and giving into the urge to run my fingers through the drying frizz atop his head. “I simply want you to be safe.” And mine, I resist adding.
Rooney rolls his eyes. “Right.” He steps backward, out of my grasp, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right…” he says again, sounding less sure this time. “Look, I hafta get back to my apartment. There’s shit I need to do before my shift tonight.”
Ah, yes. Past noon on a Saturday. Caution doesn’t open until ten, but I don’t point that out.
“I’ll drive you home,” I say instead, but Rooney shakes his head.
“Not necessary. I’ll take the bus—there’s a station nearby.”
Powerless for the first time in my existence, I trail Rooney down the hall to my room.
He shoves his clothes from yesterday into a pillowcase and maneuvers his sockless feet into the new set of boots I created, as promised.
He doesn’t thank me, and I don’t care; I’m not in this for gratitude or because I want him indebted to me.
All I want is for Rooney to desire my company the way I’m desperate for his.
Maybe not even that, because if it’s possible to need someone too much, I’m certain I’ve crossed that threshold.
My being wants Rooney more than his fragile humanity can match.
“Later,” Rooney says without looking at me, then clomps out the door in those stiff, heavy boots.