Chapter 4 Cyprian #2
"Yeah, well, it's my life." Her voice cracks slightly on the last word. "It's what I have to do."
"It should not be."
"Welcome to economic reality, Cyprian. Bills don't care about what should be. They care about being paid. Landlords don't care about my wellbeing. They care about rent. The system doesn't care about any of us."
I hear the bitterness in her voice. The resignation. The bone-deep exhaustion of someone who has been fighting for survival so long they have forgotten what it feels like to simply exist.
And I recognize it. Have lived it for centuries. The desperation of someone trying to survive on terms not of their choosing.
"If you were not exhausted," I say carefully, "would you choose this work?"
She is quiet for a long moment. Her hands continue moving across my back, but the aggression has faded into something softer. More vulnerable.
"I love massage therapy," she says finally. "I love helping people feel better. But I hate doing it while I'm desperate. There's a difference."
"Yes. There is."
She leans back slightly, and I feel the loss of her weight immediately. "Why are you asking me all this?"
"Because I am beginning to understand that you are not simply an employee. You are someone I am choosing to see."
Her hands tremble against my skin.
"That's dangerous," she whispers.
"Probably."
She shifts her position, moving higher on my back, her knees pressing into my sides as she leans forward to reach my upper shoulder blades. Her hands find the calcified ridge near my wing joint, and she drives her knuckles into the adhesion with brutal efficiency.
There is a faint crackle. A mineral snap. The calcification breaks apart beneath her touch, and I feel the sudden release of tension, the rigid muscle softening into something warm and pliable.
I exhale slowly.
"There we go," she murmurs. "That's better."
Her hands move to my wing joint, her fingers tracing the delicate membrane where it connects to my shoulder blade. She is careful here, her touch lighter, more tentative. She knows this area is sensitive. She knows the bone spurs are sharp.
She knows I could hurt her if I moved too quickly.
But I will not.
I would never.
Her fingers press into the base of my wing, and I feel the warmth spreading through the membrane, the tension easing, the calcification dissolving under her touch.
And then she leans forward, her weight shifting, and I feel the soft press of her body against my back.
It is brief. Accidental. She is just adjusting her position, trying to get better leverage.
But for a moment, I feel the warmth of her chest against my spine, the softness of her stomach pressed against the rigid stone of my lower back.
And I stop breathing.
Because this is not clinical.
This is not professional.
This is something else entirely.
I force myself to remain still. To keep my wings folded. To keep my hands flat against the table.
I will not move.
I will not react.
I will not give in to the overwhelming, primal urge to turn over, to pull her down onto the furs, to wrap my wings around her and keep her here, safe and warm and mine.
Because she is not mine.
She is my therapist.
She is here because I am paying her.
And I will not ruin this by allowing my instincts to override my discipline.
She pulls back, her hands resuming their work, and I exhale slowly, forcing the tension from my body.
"You're doing better," she says. "Your shoulder blade isn't as locked up as it was last week. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
I am not doing anything.
She is doing everything.
But I do not say that.
"I will," I say instead.
She works in silence for a while, her hands moving across my back in steady, methodical strokes. The volcanic oil is slick and warm, and I can feel the heat radiating from her palms, seeping into my stone skin, softening the calcified tissue.
And then she speaks again.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"Why do you do this to yourself?"
I do not answer immediately.
"I mean," she continues, "you're clearly miserable. You work insane hours. You don't take care of yourself. You're literally turning into stone because you refuse to deal with your emotions. So... why?"
I am silent for a long moment.
And then I say, "Because it is easier."
"Easier than what?"
"Easier than feeling."
She does not respond.
But her hands slow, her touch becoming gentler, more deliberate.
And I realize, with a sudden, uncomfortable clarity, that she understands.
Because she is doing the same thing.
She is working herself into exhaustion because it is easier than confronting the reality of her situation. Because it is easier than admitting she needs help. Because it is easier than allowing herself to be vulnerable.
We are the same.
Two people running from our own fragility, using work and discipline and sheer stubborn willpower to avoid the terrifying reality of our own needs.
And I do not know how to fix that.
For either of us.
She finishes the session in silence, her hands moving across my back one final time before she climbs off the table. I hear her footsteps as she walks to the supply station, the sound of a towel being pulled from the shelf.
And then she is back, standing beside the table, the towel in her hands.
"Alright," she says. "Sit up. I need to wipe off the oil."
I push myself up slowly, my wings unfolding as I shift into a sitting position. The movement is smooth, effortless. There is no grinding. No calcification. No pain.
Just warmth.
She steps closer, the towel in her hands, and she begins wiping the oil from my shoulders, her touch light and efficient.
And I watch her.
I watch the way her brow furrows in concentration. The way her lips press together as she works. The way her small, human hands move across my stone skin with a tenderness that should not exist in someone so exhausted.
And I feel it again.
That overwhelming, irrational need to protect her.
To provide for her.
To ensure she never has to work this hard again.
She finishes wiping my shoulders and moves to my wings, her touch careful as she cleans the membrane. The towel is soft against the leathery skin, and I feel the warmth of her hands through the fabric.
And then she steps back.
"All done," she says.
The warmth disappears.
The moment she steps away, I feel the cold rushing in to fill the space she left behind. It's not the petrification itself—it's the absence of her presence. The absence of her touch.
The absence of her.
I stand slowly, my wings folding against my back, and I turn to face her.
She is already packing up her supplies, her movements quick and efficient. She does not look at me.
"Same time next week?" she asks.
"Yes."
She nods. "Cool. Try not to turn into a statue before then."
She grabs her bag and heads toward the door.
And I watch her leave.
I watch the door close behind her.
And I stand alone in the sweltering, eucalyptus-scented room, my amber veins glowing softly in the dim orange light.
And I realize, with a cold, uncomfortable certainty, that I am in trouble.
Because I do not just need her touch to ease the stone-lock.
I need her.
And I do not know what to do with that.