At the potluck, the warm boy asks me in a nervous whisper, "What should I eat ( Read more... )

I see patterns now where before I did not. I see the way that the warm boy (why can't I keep their names?) flinches when I touch him and he doesn't expect it, or how he tenses for it even when he does. Even the most casual touches (fingers across his shoulders as I pass him on the walk, brushing some stray ash from his shirt) cause his back to ( Read more... )

"Stand up straight," I chide him gently ( Read more... )

My dreams are warm and full of the scent of woodsmoke, but when I wake, there's something else in the air. I fumble for the light and blink sleepily for a moment while the scents resolve themselves and my eyes make sense of what I see. The boy is in my bed and this is right and comfortable, but rather than sleeping beside me, he is curled up at the ( Read more... )

My bed tastes like the boy when I wake, but he’s not there. For a moment, I’m confused when a dozen other scents swirl through my memory (Nine fingers, a whiff of iron, warm rain, gardenias) - others I have known, perhaps. I lay in bed until the memories pass me by, leaving me only with the scent of heat and a faint wisp of wood smoke ( Read more... )

Autumn is almost upon us. I can feel it even as the breezes are warm; they carry the scent of harvest. Apples and grapes, and cooler gusts from the ocean bring salt and rotting kelp to my tongue ( Read more... )

When we arrive, I am immediately met by people whose faces I recognize, whose scents are familiar. A very large man introduces himself and I promptly forget his name. He tells me that someone I know is looking for me. The doctor. Oh, right. Boy ( Read more... )

It is dark and late when the new boy crawls into bed with me. He is warm and scared and I don’t mind in the slightest when he does. I wrap my arms around him and hold him until he falls asleep, cursing my memory that I can’t remember his name. How he came here escapes me, but my boys accept him. It is enough ( Read more... )