~*~

Sometimes he wonders how it began.

He wonders when the stalking, immature step began to captivate him; when the smell of soft skin saturated the air so that he could almost taste it every time he opened his mouth. Wonders why his heart began to pound every time he saw that mouth twist in disdain.

He's used to being alone. Used to being shunned, and he's grown accustomed his situation.

And so he doesn't understand why he lets the dragon slip between cold sheets to breathe fire against his skin with husky, childish laughter and questing fingertips. And so he doesn't understand his fascination with the exact shade those eyes reach tumbling into ecstasy.

He knows that soon, the dragon will tire with this game and go along on his way to pursue new pleasures and greener fields, but even he can't stop dreaming about 'maybe' and 'someday', although he above all knows the futility of hope.

There are nights when the sound of breathing fills the silence, and he feels hollow. In those moments, he looks through his window and watches his mistress hang heavy in the dark sky, seeking solace in her cold face.

She is but a pale wavering reflection of gold-fringed silver eyes that say nothing but promise everything. Sometimes, he feels like the moon is overwhelming him with her pull, beckoning him closer as though she would take him in her intangible arms and steal his breath.

Sometimes, he thinks that he is drowning.

And sometimes, the dragon watches him with eyes of molten argent, and he knows he is.

~*~