Bella Donna

by Feverdream (Hochrot)

Summary:

“We found a place near the Baltic Sea where we could stay for a long time. One evening, we ate mushrooms. Oh god, there was a woman who told us about witches. Space mushrooms, that was really terrible! We ran around on the beach and played witches.”

- Paul Landers about the time Feeling B spent in Poland in Mix mir einen Drink

Notes:

Once again, many thanks to the ever wonderful hwbswd for beta and unwavering support, even when it comes to my most ridiculous ideas ♥

Chapter 1: Solve

“Witam panią,” tries Paul in his best Polish. “Czy możemy kupić, uh… Ser? Mleko?”

The old lady smiles—a crinkle of her eyes more than anything else. They’re piercing, bright green, like moss sprinkled with gold. She’s sitting in front of her house, a small cottage not far from the coast they’ve passed every day on their way to the sea since they arrived a week ago. A bunch of goats is grazing in an enclosure close by. The friends they made on the beach told them that she sells dairy products, fresh, tasty things. Paul and Flake figured they might as well give it a try, a welcome change from Aljoscha’s soup.

“German, huh?” Paul and Flake exchange a glance and nod. “I see you pass every day with your friend. Always agitated and blatting, this man,” she laughs. Paul huffs a surprised chuckle: he didn’t think she’d notice them, but it’s a pretty acute description of Aljoscha. “Please come in.”

Paul is relieved but puzzled that she speaks German, then realizes the probable reason why a woman her age does and cringes inwardly. Anyway, he’s not going to complain: his few words of Polish were not going to take them very far. He follows Flake and the lady inside—the door frame is so low that Flake has to duck his head to get in. Inside, it’s dark and cozy and it smells like soup. They stand gingerly in the middle of the room.

As his eyes get used to the bit of light peeking in from behind flowery curtains, he discovers a large kitchen, the strangest mix of sturdy farm furniture and Formica that has seen better days, something that reminds him both of his grandmother’s flat and stuff from fairy tales. Bottles of milk are lined up against a wall, next to two ancient fridges and a large stove. There is a fresh loaf of bread on the table and various herbs bundled and hung to the ceiling in a corner.

“Wow,” murmurs Flake, taking in his surroundings.

Silently, the woman takes out a bunch of small cheese and displays them on the table.

“Do you like butter? Cream? Very good with red fruits from the garden.” She motions at the backdoor: through the pane, he sees a big expanse of green.

“Okay, sure,” he says.

She puts a big bowl in Flake’s hands. “Go, pick some.”

Hesitant, they step out. The woman stays inside but looks through the window and gives them a reassuring smile.

“We might as well, right?” shrugs Flake. Paul nods and toes off his shoes to walk in the grass.

The garden is lush and flourishing, wild bushes and blossoming apple trees, a thriving vegetable patch stretching to their left. Birds are chirping, goats are quietly bleating in the distance, everything seems to be bursting with life. The sun is unusually warm for this time of the year, it’s been since they arrived; it feels like June already, the longest days, soaked in golden light. To his surprise, they do find a bunch of strawberries behind the lines of beans and cabbages. Flake even comes back from his exploration of the bushes with a handful of raspberries.

“Crazy place,” he says, popping one in his mouth. “’M glad they told us about it.” He turns warily to the window. “She’s a bit funny... But in a good way, it seems.”

“Yup, looks like it’s our lucky day.”

As they walk back to the door, Flake grabs his arm. “Holy shit, look at that!”

A dark ram is looking at them. Paul swallows thickly: he has no idea how belligerent these animals are, he’s much closer than he thought the goats would be. It doesn’t look like the wire fence could do much against him, if he’d put his mind to it. It sure is an impressive sight. Flake must be thinking the same thing: he doesn’t release his grip.

“No worry,” says the old lady, who suddenly appears in the door frame. “It looks like he likes you.”

Confused, Paul smiles amiably but doesn’t waste time getting back in. The woman started to wrap things up and pile them in their basket, a present from their friend from Mecklenburg. Paul tries to help her while Flake rummages around the room. From the corner of his eyes, he sees him edging towards the herbs.

“Can I have some of this?” he asks, inspecting some of the leaves. “Saint John's wort always helps.”

“Yes, of course,” the old lady says warmly. Seemingly pleased, she mumbles something in Polish that Paul doesn’t understand. He probably could make out a few words, but -

“Paul!” exclaims Flake. “Look, this is for you.” He’s holding a small glass jar with a handmade label: Atropa belladonna.

Paul grins. “Huh, that looks cool. What is it?” he asks the woman. Her whole face brightens.

“Very special. Normally, boys don’t find out.” Paul frowns, confused, so she gets closer. “For special women. To make eyes wide and to fly. Lots of pleasure,” she adds with a conspiratorial, somewhat bawdy smirk. Paul smiles back politely: he has no idea what she means, partly because her German is a bit off, partly because she sounds, well, pretty weird.

She looks at them carefully, assessing, almost, for long enough that Paul gets a bit uncomfortable. Flake clears his throat awkwardly.

“You look like special boys,” she says eventually. “And it is a special day. Take it.”

“Oh no, we were just looking, we d-didn’t mean to -” tries Flake, but she cups her hands around his, closing them over the little jar.

“Rub it on skin, in creases. Where it is warm and wet.”

“And? What will happen?” asks Paul, curious. The lady just laughs, her red, puffy cheeks and lively eyes making her look very young for an instant, and pats them on the shoulder. She takes the jar from Flake’s hands and slips it into the pocket of his jeans, a weirdly intimate gesture that takes him aback.

She points at the basket. “It can’t go in there. Just for you two.”

“Okay.” Paul grins, a bit hesitant, then decides that this strange encounter has lasted long enough. He fishes all the coins he can find in his pockets and gives them to the women. He has no idea how much it is—he hopes it’s enough for all they have.

She counts. “Very good.” Paul grabs the basket, which is heavier than he thought: they really got lucky, here. “You’re celebrating, yes?” she smiles.

“Uh-huh,” nods Paul automatically. “I mean… Celebrating what?”

For the first time, her smile fades. She frowns. “Today is a special day. Walpurgis. When the witches dance and fly the highest.”

Paul glances at Flake, who shrugs. “Uh, okay.”

“We have this in Germany too. My mother used to tell me all these tales,” babbles Paul, a bit troubled.

“Not just tales,” the woman smirks. “Sabbaths and dances. Witches come on Walpurgis. You watch out.”

Paul smirks, playful. “Yeah? They’re after us?”

“Not after you.”

“Are they mean? Will they c-curse us?” asks Flake with a sly smile.

“Only old witches. New witches only know easy spells. Love spells.” She pauses and busies herself in a cupboard. “You like pretty dresses? For the celebration?”

Flake giggles. “D-dresses?”

Before they could say anything else, she produces a scarf seemingly from nowhere, a silky deep red thing that she wraps around Paul’s shoulders. “Beautiful, heh?”

Paul chuckles, incredulous, and watches her tie another one around Flake’s neck. It looks smooth, sprinkled with stars. They exchange wide-eyed looks.

“Here. You boys are ready. Have a good night.”

“But...” starts Paul, going to remove and give her back the scarf.

“No, no!” She waves her hands defensively. “For you. You go now.”

They thank her profusely and head back in silence. It’s only when they’re back on the main road that they talk again.

“That was weird,” says Paul.

“To say the least,” adds Flake, raising his eyebrows.

“We probably made a good impression on her… or something,” shrugs Paul, knotting the scarf around his hips. “Anyway. Let’s celebrate, then!”

*

The sabbath was Aljoscha’s idea.

As soon as Walpurgisnacht was mentioned, it seemed like the only logical thing to do—well, it was Aljoscha’s logic, but as often, Paul and Flake could follow, twist it, and build upon it. Knolli did too until they started talking about costumes and dresses. They spent the afternoon planning and preparing, gathering things here and there, inviting strangers and acquaintances.

Stach, a guy they met the year before and who, thanks to a wonderful combination of qualities—knowing all the cool bands, speaking German, and providing them with weed—became a good friend, was immediately enthusiastic. He promised to bring a few friends and contribute something to the party—a contribution that turned out to be some weird-looking mushrooms in a wrinkled paper bag.

“Magic mushrooms. It’s gonna be a lot of fun,” he said.

Aljoscha grinned, obviously delighted. “I bet it will.”

The dinner was a success: a dozen people came, a lot of them Paul had never seen before, and brought bread, pastries, and drinks. By the time everybody was full, the sun was starting to set and they were all chatting like old friends, a sloppy mix of German and Polish and extravagant hand gestures.

That’s when Aljoscha stood up and asked them to feed the fire while they were waiting for the ceremony to begin. And now, Paul and Flake are doing their best to help him turn the driftwood they found on the beach into a pair of horns—with the help of a lot of gaffer tape, they succeed—and drape a sheet around himself like some kind of robe.

“Boys, I’m all set,” he says eventually. He’s quite a sight with his dramatic headdress and dark eyebrows—they used a charred stick from last night’s fire as eyeliner. Paul and Flake beam at each other. “Get dressed. I’ll turn around, surprise me.”

It takes them a bit longer: Flake slips in a dress he kept from a girlfriend and sometimes sleeps in, and Paul uses the scarf of the old lady as a skirt. He ties a knot at the waist of his shirt to make it fit tighter. They put on pointy hats they fashioned with newspaper and tape, they share a pair of sparkly dangly earrings Aljoscha found them, and they use blankets as cloaks. With twigs they picked on the beach, they managed to make actually pretty credible-looking broomsticks. To top it off, they stain their lips red with a few spare raspberries and circle each other’s eyes with ashes: Paul draws thick lines stretching all the way to the temples over and under Flake’s eyes, plus big black eyebrows. It’s not exactly subtle, but it looks kind of cool, Paul thinks, his blue eyes are gleaming behind his glasses. And he doesn’t exactly know what Flake does, but probably something similar. He’s tipsy enough that he’s fine with it anyway.

When they’re done, they take a good look at each other and burst out laughing. It’s actually a good thing they don’t have a mirror, Paul figures: Flake looks like the rattiest, scraggiest little witch, hesitant and giggly and awkward.

“We’re ready, you can look,” says Paul.

When he turns around, Aljoscha cackles and howls, delighted, so much that he needs a minute to catch his breath. “Wonderful! Two blond Nina Hagens.” He pauses and looks at them from head to toe. “Hmm. Sort of shabby ones,” he grins. “But it’s perfect! Come on, let’s do this.”

As they gather their things, they find back the wrinkled paper bag. They exchange a look and Aljoscha smirks conspiratorially. “Now is a good time, no?”

“Sure,” says Flake, eyes wide with enthusiasm, and Paul nods, curious. They divide the mushrooms into more or less equitable portions and gulp them down. It’s gross, the texture and taste are revolting, but they eat it all anyway.

When they finally join the others, they’re met with cheers and laughter and wolf whistles.

Knolli gapes and facepalms. “I’ll just go and wait in the van,” he mumbles. People boo, but he doesn’t even turn back: Paul and Flake chase him away with their broomsticks.

It’s just the three of them now, looking like fools in front of a little crowd of baffled strangers—business as usual. Grinning wide, Paul feels unshakable. The sky is wide, bright smudges of orange and pink and purple. The rosy light seems magical and the complicated alchemy of beer and vodka in his body is perfectly balanced.

The fire burns bright. Aljoscha stands in front of it, straightens up, and points to the ground with two fingers of his left hand, and to the sky with his right. His smile looks kind of unhinged, almost dangerous in the flicker of the flames. Flake sets up his Casio, and they both settle behind it.

“Ladies,” says Aljoscha with a nod, prompting them to start. With a finger, Paul plays a single low drone and Flake adds an ominous tritone, slow and rhythmical. “Gather round, my brethren!” he exclaims, and when their little public goes silent, he starts reciting with no hesitation nor faltering, waving widely,

“We, it seems, have entered newly
In the sphere of dreams enchanted.
Do thy bidding, guide us truly,
That our feet be forwards planted
In the vast, the desert spaces!”

Impressed, Paul and Flake exchange a glance. Flake’s eyes glow and glitter. They grin wide.

Somehow, Aljoscha convinces everybody to take part in a strange dance that involves a lot of whirling and jumping, pairs hopping around hooked by the elbow, turning and swapping partners, fast enough that there is some tumbling and a lot of hysterical laughter. With all that they drank, Paul is actually amazed they manage to mostly stay upright. He sticks to a low chord, but Flake improvises a bunch of weird little melodies that are a major success.

Then Aljoscha belts something that Paul can’t quite make out: it’s followed by an uproar of howls and guffaws. The group reorganizes in a line with Aljoscha at its end.

“No shame here, my brethren, just a good time!” he roars.

From where he stands, Paul sees the first person—a very drunk guy whose name he forgot—kneel down, and Aljoscha turns around.

Flake chortles, surprised, and leans toward Paul. “The kiss of shame! I can’t believe he’s actually doing it.”

“We can only hope for these poor people that he keeps his pants on.”

Luckily enough, Aljoscha lifts up his robe but does keep his pants on, and one by one, every single attendant playfully kisses his ass. Paul is glad they’re busy playing, but when the line is over, Aljoscha turns to them.

“Your turn, my spawn!”

“Come on, Losch, we’re busy,” complains Paul. Not breaking character, Aljoscha glares, his eyes blue and glowering. Everybody cheers them on.

Flake elbows him in the ribs, the traitor. “Come on, Paul!”

They leave the Casio to follow the line: under clapping and whooping, they both kneel down and plant symmetrical smooches on the backside of Aljoscha’s leather pants. Before they could even stand up, Paul feels people pulling him by the arm and he’s embarked on a chaotic, swirling round dance around the fire, all of them holding hands, frisking and scampering around, faster and faster. He clutches Flake’s hand tight and laughs, elated. All the hollering and cackling booms and tolls in the night, a whooshing, almost melodic rhythm. The sky turned purple and stars are popping up, blinking like eyes. Paul turns and turns, it seems like he can’t stop. He’s bursting with joy.

“Do you see them? They’re coming!” exclaims Flake at some point.

What Paul sees is a huge flock of bats swirling and undulating like starlings, coming closer. He never saw so many.

“It’s the witches, Paul!”

Paul doesn’t even bother answering, just laughs some more. The round goes on for awfully long, it seems, Paul doesn’t understand how they can even stay on their feet, all of them, but they do for a while, before someone trips and everybody collapses in the sand, in stitches.

They lost their hats and brooms in the commotion and Flake sort of tangles himself in Paul’s cloak. Paul would help him out, but a deluge of supernatural colors falling from the sky distracts him.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles. He shakes his head and tries to focus, which proves only mildly successful, but it’s enough to notice that Flake stopped trying to unknot himself and is now slowly petting the blanket. He looks absolutely transfixed.

“Are textures our friends?” he asks earnestly.

Paul chortles, surprised. “I guess?”

That’s when Stach rolls to him, looking gleefully drunk. Paul feels a big burst of affection and reaches out to hug him. Stach hugs him back clumsily.

“It might be the right time for the shrooms,” he murmurs.

“Oh god, the shrooms,” articulates Paul slowly.

Aljoscha pops out of nowhere. “They’re gone.”

Stach frowns. “Gone where?”

“In… our bellies?” tries Flake.

Stach’s jaw drops. “You ate it already? All of it?” They nod, the three of them in sync. Paul thinks that it must look hilarious from the outside. He giggles.

“Well, that sure explains things,” says someone in the vicinity.

“There was enough for all of us,” goes on Stach, sounding vaguely offended or alarmed, Paul can’t tell. “You guys must be out of your mind!”

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles. It seems that he can’t really detach himself from the ground. The flames are so beautiful, golden and dancing. He stares, hypnotized. He hardly notices the voices around him, the ruffle of the motion. Eventually, he manages to blink: everybody left except for Flake, who is still curled up next to him. They’re not far, he hears Aljoscha’s voice in the distance, distorted and clipped, but he can’t be bothered to follow them or ask them to stay.

When he finally tears himself away from the sight, he sits up and takes in his surroundings. Flake looks all disheveled and unfocused. They crawl closer to the fire, spread out their cloaks on the sand, and lie together. Within arm’s reach, Paul finds remains of their little feast; he fetches a forgotten strawberry and dips it in what’s left of the cream. It melts in his mouth: the cream feels smooth, delicious and pillowy. The freshness of the fruit explodes in sun-drenched drops. He fucking moans.

“Flake, this is the best...”

They eat all they can find: everything is tasty and incredible, a real procession of sensations and landscapes, crisp and silky textures, sweet and sparkling flavors.

“This woman… A goddess or something...” mumbles Flake.

“A gift from the heavens… Or, you know. The other side.” Paul feels both very lucid and very confused. Suddenly, he’s reminded. “Hey, you still have the belladonna thing?”

Flake blinks slowly. “Yeah, it’s in my pants.”

“Let’s try it.”

They struggle a little, but they do find Flake’s pants: the little jar is still there, in the pocket where the old lady left it. Paul opens it, curious. It’s a thick balm; it smells herbal and a bit medicinal. Kind of intoxicating, actually. Very good.

He wonders out loud. “What did she say again?”

“You just spread it on the skin, I guess. Creases? Wet places? Something like that?” Flake’s voice is all slurred and dreamy. “What does that even mean?”

“I think it means pussy,” chirps Paul.

Flake frowns. “Come on.” He pauses. “I mean. Yeah.” They exchange a glance, Flake looks a bit suspicious. “I’m not putting this in my -”

“Move on. I’ll spread it on your armpit,” decides Paul, getting closer. “Like when you have a fever and you don’t want the thermometer up your ass.”

“Paul -”

Paul doesn’t really listen, he just takes a bit of the balm and slips two fingers in the crook of Flake’s armpit. It’s warm and wet. Flake squirms and brings his arm even closer to his body, but it works anyway.

“See? It even looks like it,” giggles Paul, moving his fingers back and forth.

“Paul!” says Flake again, just as indignant, but he giggles anyway.

When he’s done, Flake does the same to him—it’s so ticklish that Paul has a hard time staying in place—and they go on until the pot is empty.

They lie back on the blankets, next to one another, close enough to feel the heat of the other’s skin but not enough to touch. Paul stares at the sky: it’s pitch black now, sprinkled with stars. The milky way strikes through. He never saw it so bright, so clear. He wonders if it tastes like milk, too.

They take everything in silence, religiously, almost.

“Do you think that if you were falling in space you would slow down after a while, or go faster and faster?” asks Flake eventually, a soft whisper.

Paul grins. “Faster and faster. And for a long time you wouldn’t feel anything. And then you’d burst into fire.”

Paul realizes that the stars sparkle in an unusual way. On the edge of his vision, they glimmer wildly, spiral and swirl. He breathes hard. When he closes his eyes, it gets worse, so he keeps them open and tries to focus on the moon. It’s full and bright, its glow is beautifully iridescent, compelling… He reaches out to touch it—he imagines it cool and refreshing, slightly powdery maybe—and somehow loses all sense of balance.

He’s still lying on the ground, he still feels the slightly itchy fabric of the quilt under his calves, the sand solid and cold underneath, and yet it seems that he’s falling forward. He tries to grab hold of something but fails and keeps falling, like in the dreams he sometimes has when he falls asleep. Except that past the initial fright, it’s almost enjoyable. The night wraps around him. He could be flying.

“Shit, Flake, I’m high as a kite,” he slurs. His voice sounds weird, distant and unfamiliar and high-pitched. He thinks Flake answers something. He can’t say what. “Grab my ankle,” he goes on. “I don’t wanna fly away.” Flake chuckles. It tinkles, pretty and melodic.

Since Flake is of no help, he gropes at the ground next to him to try and settle down. The sand slips through his grip. It’s surprisingly warm—he thinks of all the sun it soaked through the day. He plunges his hand into it and the grains slide between his fingers. It feels soft and alive, almost like fur. Amazed, he glides his fingers to and fro. It’s smooth and enveloping, the weirdest, most sensual caress. He arches his hips and bites back a whimper.

He’s extremely aware of everything that touches his skin: the cotton of his shirt, the cool night breeze, the silky material of the scarf around his waist. It tickles his thighs deliciously. The sensation invades everything, fills up the sky, it seems, it makes him feel hot all over. There’s a distinct warm pulsation of pleasure building deep down his belly. It’s almost like getting a boner, but not quite.

He wiggles on the blanket, giddy. Everything spins and he has this impression of flying again, flowing through brisk air, the light of the stars dancing on his skin. His whole body is as sensitive as the tender inside of his thighs or his wrists. A weird, heady mix of drunkenness and arousal compels him to bring his free hand to his belly, then lower, to his crotch. He jolts in horror.

“It’s gone!” He pats himself thoroughly—nothing. “What the fuck is going on, Flake, I’m - My dick is...” His voice sounds wrong and squeaky. He forces his eyes open, tries to focus, and brings up his hands to look at them. They’re thin and pretty and not at all how they should be. He gulps hard and turns to Flake.

“Paul, I feel weird,” he says. His voice is soft, a bit distorted. “Different.”

Paul chuckles, baffled. “Yeah… You look pretty different too.”

“Huh?”

Flake looks like a girl. It’s not obvious at first, he’s still skinny and angular, but his hips seem wider and his chest softer. His face is distinctly more feminine, his features daintier, his lashes very long. He must have dropped his glasses at some point. Okay, thinks Paul, okay. No need to panic. He rolls back on the quilt and takes a deep breath.

With trepidation, he looks down at his chest and pulls on the collar of his shirt to peek inside—yeah, that’s what he thought. His hands creep back between his legs. It’s not nothing, actually: he presses his palm and rubs. Even through his clothes, it feels really good, like the warmth that had been pooling so far blooms and flows to the surface.

“Jeez, this is -”

“You’re a girl, Paul.” Flake looks at him—her—with huge, dead-serious eyes. Her pupils are wide, jet black, but it’s still Flake, giggly and stating the obvious.

Paul smiles languidly. “You too.”

From the corner of her eyes, she can see Flake move, long white limbs undulating in the darkness. “I really am… We really are…” Her voice seems far away, like it’s going through water. “What does it mean? Will it last?”

Paul wishes she could focus but she can’t. The flames from the fire seem to dissolve into golden dust and flow through the sky in beautiful swirls. It’s fascinating. She tips her face up, waiting for it to rain down on her.

“Can’t speak, Flake,” she mutters. “My hair is being pulled by the stars again.”

The fabric of her skirt is astoundingly smooth against her hands. For a second, she thinks that it would feel amazing on her cock, a weird thought that screeches like Larsen, like a tear in the fabric of reality, of time. It fades as quickly as it came. Curious or horny or both, she wiggles out of her underwear and slips a hand under the scarf. Her fingertips feel so good on the soft, tender skin of her inner thigh that she whimpers. She spreads her legs and edges up, but slowly, reveling in the intensity of the sensation. She gets there, though: her fingers slip through soft hair, sensitive creases and folds, warm and slippery…

“Oh god,” she giggles. She’s very wet. The feel of it is familiar, it’s pretty much like any other pussy she ever touched, but it feels better—slicker, more delicate—in addition to what she feels through it. She’s surprised by the sharpness of the sensation; it’s close to pain, except good. Between her fingers and her crotch, it echoes through her body like reverb. She squeezes her eyes shut. Halos glitch and dance, round and bright like eyes, black and blue.

Noticing Flake’s voice somewhere in the vicinity, she interrupts her self-exploration and turns to her. She’s staring at her own chest.

“I always knew that as a girl, I’d be flat as a board,” she mumbles.

Paul clicks her tongue. “You’re not flat as a board.”

She crawls closer and rises on an elbow to take a good look at her. She’s not exactly graceful but there’s a smoothness to the sharp lines of her body that wasn’t there before. Her skin glows softly, milky white and pristine, making Paul’s fingers itch. And sure, she doesn’t have giant boobs, but they’re definitely there. Paul fiddles with one of the straps of her dress for a minute, then, emboldened by curiosity, decides to slide it down her thin shoulder—then the other, down and down.

“Hmm, cute and perky,” she whispers, caressing lightly along her collarbones, brushing the back of her knuckles down her rib cage. “I like that.” Gently, she grazes the slight curve of her breasts. Flake’s breath hitches, she arches against her touch.

“Paul, why is your hand wet?” she whispers.

Paul chuckles. “Guess.” She curls up closer to press her cheek to the middle of Flake’s chest.

Without waiting for a reply, without even making the conscious decision to do so, Paul had started pressing wet little kisses everywhere she can reach, from her neck to the stretched collar of the dress under her ribs. Her skin is wonderfully soft under her lips. It tastes warm, slightly salty, like a summer night.

“I’m very horny,” she announces, and licks a long line from the bottom of a breast to its cusp.

“I figured.” Flake sighs and presses back against Paul’s mouth. “Me t-too.”

Paul decides to suck on a nipple, which becomes full and hard under her tongue. Delighted, she hums softly and reaches up to cup her other breast. She licks liberally, teases her with her tongue. Flake breathes hard. After a while, Paul moves to the spot where she can feel her heart flutter the most clearly. She laps, nips on the skin there as if she could taste her heartbeat.

Whining, Flake starts grabbing at her hastily, pulling on her clothes, like she can’t settle on where to touch her. Paul guides her hands to her neck—Flake’s fingers are cool and soft, so soft the slightest brush sends shivers down her spine—and keeps going, her tongue and lips curious and hungry. She could go on slobbering on Flake’s chest for the rest of the night, but the pulsating heat she feels between her legs keeps her on the move.

With tingling fingers, she lifts the edge of Flake’s dress and gets rid of her underwear, then settles between her open legs. As she gently strokes the thin skin of the inside of her thighs to get them to spread more, she notices that Flake raised on her elbows to stare anxiously in her direction.

“What?” Paul asks.

“What? Can’t I have a look at my own pussy?”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Can’t see much,” she mumbles, stretching her neck. Ignoring her, Paul pulls her towards herself. “What’s it like?”

Paul licks her lips. “Wet.” It’s pink and glistens in the warm light of the flames—she’s so turned on, Paul marvels—and her vision twists and turns again, swirls of shapes glittering on the edge of her eyes. Her hands still stroke her thighs, edge closer. “Wonderful,” she whispers. Gently, she rubs a thumb along the slit. “Amazing.”

Flake gasps. She’s still looking: Paul holds her gaze as she strokes more firmly and circles her wet fingers around her clit. Flake’s legs open wider, she whimpers, and when Paul leans in to run her tongue on her lips, her eyes roll back in her head.

“Paul, how can it -” she starts, and stops, and stares again before flopping back, obviously overwhelmed. Her long thighs are covered with goosebumps. She presses back against Paul, who holds her open and licks and suckles thoroughly. It’s familiar territory and yet it never felt like this before—Flake’s warm sleekness is vaguely surreal, a whole world in itself, heady and red. It’s like her heart is beating right against Paul’s mouth, a fast, intoxicating pulsation. When she closes her eyes, unknown stars glisten under her eyelids. Between her own legs, tension pools, the most delicious burn.

She’d touch herself but she can’t stop. Her perceptions are all warped and amazing, she has to explore every single one of them, taste every inch of wet skin, over and over. She’s so wrapped in them that she doesn’t notice how Flake is trembling and moaning. She feels fingers tangle with her hair, tugging not exactly gently, but not hard enough to distract her.

“Don’t s-stop,” stutters Flake with her cute high-pitched voice, as if Paul had any intention to.

She tenses and arches hard, her back a spectacular bow and her shoulders and heels dug hard in the sand; she presses herself against Paul’s face and Paul actually has to hold her by the hips because she’s thrashing so much. When she comes, Paul feels her quivering against her mouth and she hears her, far and foggy, “Oh fuck, oooh, fuck, how can it -” And then nothing, just heavy breathing. She twists out of Paul’s grip.

“Oh, Paul, you can’t imagine...” Her voice is breathy and unsteady.

“I think I can,” she mumbles right against the silky skin of Flake’s inner thigh, that something inside her compels to nibble -

Flake grabs her by the collar of her shirt and pulls her up. “This is insane -” She’s all twitchy and her fingers are shaking as she struggles with the buttons of Paul’s shirt. One, two, three—she sneaks a hand inside and pulls it open. “Let me -”

Paul lies over Flake, between her legs, braced on her hands. Flake tugs on her shirt, which slides awkwardly down her shoulders.

“God, you have amazing tits… It’s the best dream ever,” she mumbles, and she reaches up to grope them hungrily.

“Ouch! Be gentle.” Paul takes her hands to guide her and show her what feels good. “’S not a fucking dream.”

Flake’s eyes are heavy-lidded, glassy. Paul moans when her smooth thumbs run over her nipples: she didn’t expect such a bright spark of pleasure. The world shrinks to Flake’s fingertips, her strokes unbearably smooth.

Hastily, Paul sits up to get rid of her shirt—she struggles with the knot for a bit—and decides to shed her improvised skirt as well. It falls open as soon as she pulls on it.

“Your hair too,” asks Flake, and it takes a minute for her to understand but she unties her ponytail and gingerly spreads the long bleached locks on her shoulders. They’re so dry they catch in her fingers.

She straddles Flake’s hips and, after a deep breath, she looks down at herself. Her head spins, everything reels around her—it’s so obvious yet so hard to believe. It’s a fairly pretty body, a very detached part of her brain thinks—the one that has a past and a future—but its novelty is baffling. She brushes her own limbs experimentally, cups her breasts—a nice handful—, lets her fingers wander down the smooth slope of her belly. Flake runs her palms on Paul’s hips. Her eyes, black and huge in her pointy little face, burn with desire. Troubled and aroused, Paul blushes.

“Don’t stop,” breathes Flake, her hands soft and delicious on Paul’s thighs. Holding her gaze, Paul presses her fingers between her legs and bites her lip. She rubs gently, not really aiming to get herself off, just to relieve some of the tension, and yet shivers of pleasure shoot up her back. Flake swallows hard and whispers something that sounds like ‘So hot’. Under her, Paul feels her squeezing her thighs together, wiggling her hips. It’s so fascinating, this face that looks so familiar yet so foreign…

With her free hand, she brushes the sharp curve of Flake’s cheek and traces her lip with her thumb. Flakes leans into the touch and her eyes flutter shut. When they open again, she turns her head to suck Paul’s thumb in her mouth. She hums, needy, and swirls her slick tongue around the finger. Paul’s breath catches in her throat. She rubs gently against the warmth of her tongue, closes her eyes too. With her other hand, she’s still stroking herself, all tender and swollen and wet. She decides to press two fingers inside -

“Oh,” she whispers, amazed. Flake is still sucking lavishly on her thumb, she throbs and clenches around her own digits, and the feelings are similar enough—moist, enveloping, heady—that it’s confusing, that which set of lips, what is whose is blurred… For a minute, she relishes in the ambiguity, gives in to it completely.

“Wait,” she says eventually, snapping out of this weird feeling of indeterminacy. She shakes her head, gets back to (some of) her senses, and pushes Flake’s dress up until Flake gets the hint and struggles out of it, the fabric stretching dangerously as she pulls it over her head. She takes her scarf off too, clumsy and hurried. As soon as she’s naked, Paul makes a little bundle with the clothes and shoves it under Flake’s head to make sure she’s comfortable, stretches over her, a leg between her thighs, and lowers herself down until their chests are pressed against each other. Flake’s body rubbing against hers feels like a wide, teasing caress. Her elbows dug on both sides of her head, she kisses her, a wet press of her lips. Flake’s part under hers: she slides her tongue on the smooth wet surface inside, then past the ridge of her teeth, in the warmth of her mouth.

When Flake’s tongue slips along hers, she hums with pleasure. She feels hungry, devoured by hunger, and Flake’s hands down her back and on her ass feel so good she can’t think straight. The fire crackles behind her. She feels its heat in waves as if the flames were licking her skin. She presses her crotch against Flake’s thigh and starts rocking slowly. The tension turns into pleasure, swells and pulsates. She can hear herself pant.

Flake’s hands slide up, she grabs and pulls Paul’s hair to have her tip her face up and starts mouthing her neck, sloppy kisses that make her breath catch in her throat. Paul sees a veil of crimson sparkles, the night stirs and twists, she has to struggle to remain upright.

“Come on,” says Flake, and she pushes her further so her mouth can slide down, her cold slick tongue running along her chest to circle a nipple, suck and nibble, gentle bites that feel incomprehensibly good. Overwhelmed, Paul whines and shivers.

“Please,” she croaks, grabbing Flake’s hand to guide it between her legs.

“Oh god,” whispers Flake.

“I know, please -”

She grinds against Flake’s hand and it feels amazing, bursts of warmth spreading from her crotch to the surface of her skin. Her fingers curl and rub slickly, curious and insistent, but not for long: mumbling something Paul can’t make out, she pulls her up and gets her to kneel in front of her face.

Paul bites her lip and her heart pounds hard as she watches Flake lean in to press a kiss to her hip, then to the tender spot low on her belly, then through her pubes, then -

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps when Flake pulls her in and her smooth cool tongue slips between her legs. For a minute, she can’t even keep up with what’s going on, the pleasure is too unusual, too intense, but soon, she rolls her hips and grinds back against Flake’s slippery lips. She leans back and braces on her hands.

She tenses, a nice slow burn along her thighs, and lets her head roll back. Flake rubs and laps enthusiastically, sort of voraciously, actually, which feels supernaturally good, bright waves of pleasure flowing through her, matching the persistent rhythm of the surf she can hear with complete clarity, until both blend and she loses all sense of where she ends and the sea begins. Even through her closed eyelids, she feels the glow of the moon trickling on her skin, dim and smooth like a caress. The stars twinkle and swirl.

The waves grow and grow until she feels completely submerged by them and it would be scary if Flake wasn’t holding her down so tenderly, an arm tied around her hips. When it seems that it can’t get fuller, grander, her climax hits with such violence that she almost topples down, an explosive spark and a trail of flames from her crotch to her brain, brief and blinding. And to her surprise, it lasts, the heat pulsing and pulsing then gently withering down.

“S-shit,” she stutters as she collapses ungracefully on her side, her ass on the ground and her legs still tangled over Flake. Shaky and disoriented, her pulse beating hard to her ears, the night swaying around her, she tumbles and clings to the first thing she can grab: Flake’s knees that she brought up. She presses her cheek to the soft skin. Dizzy, she starts kissing her way down her thigh. “Again,” she murmurs.

“Paul… Paul, t-take it easy,” she ears from a distance. Flake pulls her up and gets her to sit down. She closes her eyes and a storm of glistening dots sparkle under her eyelids. She waits for it to dissolve, for her breathing to slow down. Flake strokes her cheek gently.

“Maybe Stach and the others didn’t go far. Maybe we could find them,” Paul says after a while, husky.

Flake looks at her, puzzled. “What for?”

Paul chuckles. “Fucking.”

“Seriously?” Flake giggles too.

“D’you think it’s always like this?” muses Paul dreamily. “For girls?”

“I don’t know.” Flake’s long hands lay on her belly, thin and tempting. “If it was, girls would be fucking constantly, no?”

Paul grins wide, and for a minute, they say nothing, just listen to the low rumble of the night, of the waves. The fire crackles softly.

“Paul?” Paul raises an eyebrow. She’s tracing lazy lines on Flake’s thigh with her fingertips. “What if we’re not girls?”

Paul scoffs. “We’re girls, Flake.”

Flake rolls her eyes. “I know, I mean… Not any girls.” She pauses, obviously annoyed to have to spell it out loud. “What if we’re witches?”

“Come on,” chortles Paul.

“It wouldn’t be that much weirder,” she mumbles.

“Okay, but -”

“Aren’t the flames talking to you? Or the s-stars? Me, I can -”

“What the fuck, Flake...”

Flake doesn’t answer anything; she looks at her like she’s an idiot. Paul thinks about being offended but she’s distracted by the fact that she does hear the flames. Not hear, exactly, but she understands them, their warmth and their brightness and their hunger as if they were sisters. And if she concentrates, she definitely hears the stars too, a beautiful, tinkling rustle cascading in wonderful melodies. “Holy shit,” she murmurs, amazed.

“We are, aren’t we?” asks Flake again. Slowly, Paul nods.

“What does it mean?” Paul turns around to fully face Flake. “We have powers?” She waggles her eyebrows and Flake gives her a bold little smile. “Well? Wanna try and cast a spell?”

She nods. “What kind?”

“The old lady said that young witches can only cast love spells.” Flake’s smile turns mischievous. It’s hard to be sure in the golden glow of the flame, but it looks like she’s blushing. “Yeah? Love spell it is?”

“Okay. What do we do?”

“How should I know?” Paul shrugs. “Maybe if we think about it really hard...”

Flake nods, gives Paul a weird, challenging look, and closes her eyes. Paul figures she may as well do the same: she squeezes her eyes shut and wonders for a minute who she should be thinking about. The answer appears behind her eyelids with complete clarity. After an unfathomable stretch of time, she opens her eyes again. The stars are bright, pulsing with life. She can’t quite get herself to meet Flake’s gaze. Instead, she gently kisses her knee.

“How will we know?” she whispers against her skin, giving her goosebumps.

“We’ll find out soon enough, I guess,” answers Flake matter-of-factually. “In the coming days maybe? T-tomorrow?”

“What is even tomorrow.” Paul sounds snappier than intended, her voice weird and squeaky. It’s not even that she doesn’t want to think about what may happen next: it’s that she can’t.

She’s too distracted anyway: she nips her way down Flake’s thigh until she opens her legs and when the position gets uncomfortable, she gets up on all fours, her knees bracketing Flake’s sides and her hands near her hips. She brushes the thin skin of the inside of her thigh.

Flake chuckles weakly. “Jeez, Paul...” She strokes her whole palms from the crook of her knees to the curve of her ass. Paul hums appreciatively and presses back, arching her spine. “You really are -”

She doesn’t finish. Waiting for her next move, Paul freezes, and soon, she feels cold smooth fingertips sliding on her tailbone and down, following the crease between her ass cheeks to reach her labia and rub there gently. Eager, she squirms. Flake teases, soft caresses that feel amazing but this time, Paul wants more.

“Come on, stick it in,” she whines, and then she hisses and moans when Flake slowly slips two fingers inside. Tentatively, she rubs on very sensitive spots, gentle and thorough. Paul rolls her hips to feel it better. It’s much nicer than when she tried it herself, Flake takes her time and her fingers are so nimble, so long…

She starts moving them back and forth and Paul hollows her back, stretching luxuriously. It feels wonderful but not nearly enough. She recalls a time when she stumbled upon Flake jerking off in the van; she didn’t stare at his dick on purpose but she saw it and it would feel so good right now, she can imagine so vividly how she would grab it and guide it inside her, how warm and stiff it would be in her hand, how nicely it would stretch her…

“More,” she asks. She sounds pathetically desperate but it’s arousing, this voice that is hers, but so unusual at the same time, so close to what Paul is used to hearing from the outside... Obliging, Flake adds a finger, and she coos, delighted. She lets her head hang down and focuses on the sensation, she can practically see it under her closed eyelids, bright blotches of golden and orange and red, abstract shapes interlocking and tangling and swelling to cosmic proportions.

“Paul, come on!”

She opens her eyes again. “Huh?”

“It sounds like it feels great, do it to me!” Looking back over her shoulder, she sees her face, disheveled and flushed and peeved.

“Oh, sure.” She shakes her head and tries to get a grip. She didn’t even realize that she was making any sound. She suspects she was loud. Oh well.

She braces on one hand and lays the other on Flake’s bush. Her fingers slip down experimentally. She’s pretty much drenched, two fingers slide in easily. Flake wiggles her hips, enthusiastic and needy. She presses her palm, curls her fingers, and Flake lets out a long, soft moan that makes her shiver. They synchronize naturally; the repetitive motion circulates between them, through them, a beautiful, glittering flux. Paul nibbles on her lip and bounces back greedily against Flake’s hand.

She arches when she feels Flake’s tongue up her thigh, slick and cold, then sharp teeth scraping against the curve of her ass, and yelps when she bites: it’s not quite pain, a white explosive sensation that adds to the rest. Pleasure pulses around Flake’s fingers, a ring of warmth that widens, fills her up, then pours past her skin.

This time, she sees it coming: it’s slower, seems to come from deeper, and finally blossoms brightly. They’re in perfect sync: around her fingers, she feels Flake throb and flutter, she hears her gasp and whine. Paul opens her eyes through it and sees the stars and flames blend in abstract shapes, radiant phosphenes shaped like eyes—it really looks like eyes, a swirl of them, yellow and surreal. She rides her orgasm until the last embers die down. Still basking in their glow, spent and breathless, she enjoys the cool breeze of the night on her sweaty skin. But when her eyes focus enough to see what’s in front of her, she starts with an embarrassing squeal.

“What the fuck!” she stutters as she tumbles clumsily on her side: it’s a goat—a ram, looking dark and huge next to the fire, incomprehensibly close to them. His gleaming yellow eyes are boring into them, the weird square pupils black and eerie. “Flake, holy shit!”

Flake gapes and they stupidly curl up together, confused and shivering, as if that could protect them. The ram keeps staring patiently, his head nodding gently under the huge pair of horns.

“Is it Aljoscha?” whispers Flake eventually.

Paul sneers, upset. “It’s not Aljoscha, get a grip!” Then, after a pause, she turns to the ram: “Aljoscha?” At this point, she figures that nothing can really be discarded as nuts.

The ram slowly approaches. He looks spectacular in the glow of the flames but nothing in his demeanor is really threatening. Baffled, Paul sees him shake his head. She gulps.

“No? N-not Aljoscha?”

Flake elbows her in the ribs. “No, I know! It’s the ram of the old lady. It’s the same eyes! He’s just bigger than I thought.”

“But there was an enclosure,” mumbles Paul. To their surprise, the ram edges even closer and just drops down next to them, within arm’s reach. He stretches in the sand. “Huh. The woman did say that he liked us,” she shrugs, and goes to pet his muzzle gently. The ram leans into it and licks her fingers enthusiastically. It tickles. “See?”

“Remember where your hands were five minutes ago?” snaps Flake, her nose scrunched up. She carefully reaches to pat his side anyway.

Tiredness falls on Paul all at once. She suddenly struggles to keep her eyes open, her body feels heavy, exhausted. Flake must be feeling the same, her eyes are a bit red and her face is drawn. Spontaneously, they curl up together to the side of the ram, tucked under a horn. His fur is smoother than it looks; it’s warm and comfortable. Flake pets him gently as Paul gets up to get their bedrolls from their bags and spread them out over them.

The edges of her vision are all glitchy but there is a certain sense of normalcy creeping back. If anything, she doesn’t feel so sex-crazed anymore. She gives Flake a little smile. Her face is a mess, she’s still flushed and grayish stains of ashes run down her cheeks, her eyebrows still dramatic and black, her big blue eyes unfocused and sleepy. She grins too, weak and gentle, and delicately runs a thumb under Paul’s eye.

“Your eyes didn’t change at all,” she whispers. “Y-your whole face, really. It’s just a bit softer, here...” Her fingertips brush Paul’s cheekbone, her jaw. Paul chuckles lightly. Now that she cooled down a little, this feels awfully intimate. She suspects that she blushes, but she holds Flake’s gaze and reaches up to caress the short hair at the back of her head. Flake’s hand slides down her neck, along her throat, her chest, making her shiver, then up again, to tangle in her hair. They spontaneously lean closer and Flake presses her parted lips to Paul’s. It’s very sweet, tender and careful. She never had the idea that Flake could kiss like that.

She kisses back and feels Flake’s breath on her cheek. It gets deeper, soft brushes of slick lips and strokes of tongue, still slow but weirdly intense. She can taste herself in her mouth. When they part, she lets out a shaky breath. She may not feel so horny anymore but she still distinctly feels something bloom deep in her belly, a glowing spot of heat. She remembers what she wished.

“Hey,” she whispers, and pulls Flake closer. She tangles their legs so her crotch is pressed against Flake’s thigh and vice-versa, and lays her head on Flake’s chest. Her heart beats hard, lively and real. The slick warmth of her pussy—and Paul’s, too—feels just as real. They’ll understand later, maybe, if ever. Everything fades to black and Paul dozes off.

*

“Boys!”

Paul wakes up with a splitting headache. The sun isn’t high but the brightness of the day is blinding.

“Boys, you’re here,” yells Aljoscha again, trotting in their direction.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul mumbles, his voice low and sleep-croaky.

He sits up, wearily rubs his face, and takes in his surroundings. They’re on the beach. It’s quite cold, the fire died down. Nestled under their open sleeping bags, pressed flush against him, Flake is stirring. They’re both naked.

Flake’s eyes squint open; he reaches for his glasses automatically but can’t find them. “Where’s the goat?” he mumbles.

It’s enough to shake Paul brutally out of sleep. He takes a good look at Flake, who is a bit pale but otherwise fairly normal. His face is still dirty and he has gigantic hickeys on his chest. Memories flood back. In mild shock, Paul swallows hard.

“You -” starts Aljoscha, frowning, when he’s close enough to properly see them, but Paul raises a hand and cuts him off sharply.

“Don’t say anything.”

They slip into their clothes and pack their stuff in silence. Paul gratefully drinks some of the coffee Aljoscha brought in a thermos. He helps Flake get rid of the rest of black on his face and Flake does the same. They had to rub hard, his skin feels all red and a bit puffy.

“Potent stuff, those mushrooms, huh?” asks Aljoscha lightly.

Flake chokes on his gulp of coffee. “You can say that.”

When Aljoscha runs off to go back to his new friends, Paul clears his throat.

“You slept okay?”

“Yeah,” mumbles Flake. He averts his eyes and busies himself by shoving the blankets back in their bags. “I, uh. I had really weird d-dreams.”

Paul lights a cigarette. The familiar burn at the back of his throat is a relief. “What kind of dreams?” he asks as casually as he can, blowing the smoke through his nose.

Flake swallows hard, Paul sees his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He hands him his cigarette and lights another. “Well,” says Flake after his first drag. “I was visited by, like -” He hesitates. “A succubus.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And turned out that she...” His voice drops an octave. “She really looked like you.”

Paul chuckles. “That was me, doofus.”

For the first time since they woke up, Flake looks him in the eye, alarmed. “What.”

“Wasn’t a dream.”

“It was a dream! You had tits. And - and a pussy. I saw it. From up c-close.” Paul shrugs, but Flake goes on, vaguely distressed, maybe indignant. “What the fuck, Paul?”

“Don’t ask me!”

Flake flushes spectacularly, which is sort of cute. “Maybe we had the same d-dream. We were high.”

“True, but then how do you explain this?” Paul pulls on the collar of Flake’s shirt and points at the hickeys. “I probably have bite marks on my ass, too.”

Flake looks down at himself, then back at Paul, eyes wide. Paul holds his gaze. A few awkward seconds pass. They burst out in laughter.

“What the fuck?” asks Flake again. “What did we take?” He pauses. “It’s the old lady, right? She’s, uh. She’s a witch?”

Paul raises his eyebrows, at a loss. It could be many things, but none of them make sense, nothing quite matches. “Could be.”

They don’t say anything for a minute, but Paul sees Flake sort of failing at suppressing a smile. “Jeez, Paul, you were on f-fire.” He looks half-smug, half-embarrassed, his nose and cheeks bright red.

Paul chuckles, surprised. Some parts of the night are missing, things don’t always connect, fit together, or transition well, but he remembers most of it. The memories of the feelings and sensations are both dreamy and cuttingly sharp. He hopes he doesn’t blush but probably does. He gives Flake a cocky smile anyway. “I had a good time.”

Flake dives into his bag again. “Me too.” He goes on, rushed. “You’re, uh, the hottest girl I ever had sex with.”

Paul raises an eyebrow, flattered, but doesn’t answer anything. He finishes his cigarette, pensive. He feels a bit crappy, like he has a weird kind of hangover, but surprisingly good overall. Comfortable. Definitely not as awkward as he would have expected to feel after having the weirdest kind of sex with one of his best friends. If anything, he’s glad it happened with Flake. He can’t think of anyone else that he would trust enough for them to see him like, well, that.

Tired, their muscles kind of sore, they slowly make their way back to the van. And of course, they pass the cottage of the old woman. She’s out already, standing on the threshold. Next to her, behind the wire fence, they recognize the ram, looking dark and strong and glorious. He stares at them.

“I knew he was inside the enclosure, what the fuck,” mumbles Paul.

The woman waves at them when they pass. Paul gives her an awkward smile and they wave back politely.

“They came, yes?” she asks with piercing eyes.

Paul chuckles, amazed. “Yes, they did.”

The brightest smile flashes on her face, brief and full of complicity, and she nods knowingly.

They don’t stop, though, she doesn’t give them the idea that she expects them to. When the van comes in sight, Paul doesn’t resist asking Flake what has been nagging him since he woke up.

“What about the spells? You think it worked?”

Flake glances at him, his eyes bright blue and unreadable. “Don’t know,” he shrugs. “’S probably too early to tell.” He seems to purposely avoid Paul’s gaze. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know either.” He stops and looks at Flake curiously, waiting for him to face him. When their eyes meet, Paul’s heart pounds faster. Something flickers there, possibly the cinders of the night, possibly the kindles of…

“Maybe it did,” he says with a little smile. Flake seems twitchy but he holds his gaze. His ears are bright red. “Maybe it did.”

Chapter 2: Coagula

Notes:

Thanks again to hwbswd for insightful and swift beta, and for sticking with the little witches through all their adventures ♥

“What is ailing you, dear?” asks the old lady, her green eyes gentle but inquisitive.

“‘M fine,” mumbles Flake, sitting at the table of the cottage, in front of a line of pots of jam they’ve just filled up. “I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Hmm.” She puts the kettle on the stove and disappears into a cupboard. “Worries?”

Flake shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Heartache, yes? Longing?”

He frowns. “Why? No!”

She mumbles something he doesn’t understand, and a few minutes later, she puts a steaming cup of tea in front of him.

Paul and him have been spending a lot of time at her place. Every couple of days, they drop by and lend a hand. There is always something to do: actually, Flake wonders how she could keep everything going before they came along. They pull the weeds and pluck the fruits, they even learned how to milk the goats—well, Paul, mostly, and Flake watches. Afterward, she shares homemade pastries with them, and they chat. It’s always light and casual. They never talked about what happened that night.

He and Paul don't talk about it either. Flake figures he’s fine with whatever it was and just moved on. Flake wishes he could say the same: for the most part, he did too, but at night, things are different. At night, he has wild, feverish dreams he can’t recall in the morning. All he remembers is skin brushing, husky sighs, moist creases, the heat of sex. And that’s when he can sleep, when his fantasies don’t keep him up. They’re even worse: they always start with Paul, the Paul from that night, who was different enough from the Paul he knows and similar enough to what Flake is used to being attracted to that’s it’s only partly awkward, and they always end with Paul just how he is, sleeping soundly next to him, with his narrow hips, his badly shaven chin, and his cheeky smile.

Saint John's wort doesn’t help. Flake isn’t asking for much, really: just a bit of peace of mind. Just not wanting to jump his best friend’s bones at the most untimely moments.

When he’s done with his tea, he steps out to fetch him in the garden. He finds him in the goats’ enclosure, sitting on grass and withered petals under a tree. The black ram is curled up next to him, his heavy head resting on Paul’s lap. Flake watches him light a cigarette, his pale fingers fast and nimble around his matchbox. Troubled, he forces his gaze away. Paul blows smoke through his nose, two white wreaths dissolving in the sun, and smiles at him. His eyes glisten. Flake swallows thickly, wondering when Paul had started to look so unfamiliar, so uncanny. So attractive, too. But he doesn’t have to wonder for long: he knows.

“We’re ready. Should we go?” he asks a bit impatiently.

Paul gently moves the ram aside and holds out his hand. “Help me up?”

Flake pulls, and Paul gets on his feet. There is nothing particularly intimate about the gesture, but Flake is a bit flustered anyway. Paul gives him a little grin. He’s been very sweet with him, lately, when it’s just the two of them. When there are other people, though, he’s as annoying as ever, maybe even more so. It made Flake realize that it’s really not that often that it’s just the two of them, there is privacy basically nowhere when they’re traveling.

He misses Berlin.

 

*

Most of the time, they still shower together at the beach, except that now, they carefully turn away, which neither of them would bother to do with Knolli or Aljoscha or anyone else, really. Flake tries not to let his eyes wander, but sometimes, he does glance over his shoulder to watch the water run on the small of Paul’s back.

They also sleep back to back when they have to share a sleeping bag, which happens more often than not, and invariably Flake wakes up with a boner, curled up in Paul’s arms. It’s not as bad as getting a boner when Paul is spreading aftersun lotion on his scalding shoulders, but it’s awkward anyway.

One night, a very drunk Paul wiggled and turned in the sleeping bag to slide the strap of Flake’s dress down his shoulder, his fingers slow and gentle and astoundingly careful. Flake froze, heart pounding hard. With Paul’s rhythmic breath in the crook of his neck, he waited for what seemed forever for him to do something, anything, anticipating with tremors the smooth brush of his lips or the slickness of his tongue, but nothing happened. When he finally built up the courage to look over his shoulder, he saw that Paul had fallen asleep.

Yes, he still wears the dress to sleep. It just feels good. He likes the scarf, too, he keeps it around his neck at all times. Paul wears his own around his waist, his neck, his head. Flake thinks that it looks good on him, this bright red. Every morning, they religiously share the pair of sparkly earrings.

*

Once, as he’s looking for a pack of cigarettes, he finds his old book about plants in Paul’s bag. A page has been dog-eared, Flake doesn’t even need to check to know which one it is: Atropa Belladonna.

The old lady lets them borrow a few of hers. Paul picks the oldest, almost indecipherable ones. They spend hours trying to make sense of faded pages written in Fraktur, of opaque lines of Polish, putting their dusty bilingual dictionary to good use. Most of it is boring, but they do find weird, sometimes hilarious stuff, such as a love spell cookie recipe involving butter, flour, sugar, and pubic hair. Paul asked Stach for confirmation and they giggled and giggled.

Stach is a familiar of the old lady. They aren’t blood relatives, but he calls her babcia. When they ask him about it, he shrugs, “The people of the village are afraid of her. They’re afraid of me, too.” He does look a bit intimidating with his sharp jaw and his dark floppy mohawk. He’s definitely a punk; Flake wonders if he’s a witch, too. This is the kind of thought that crosses his mind, lately. No wonder he’s feeling funny. He tries to not think about it too much.

Paul likes him, that’s clear. As far as Flake knows, Paul never did anything with guys, but he always suspected that he’d be into it, maybe. Which is mostly good news, except for the fact that he could want any other guy than Flake. Stach looks good, with his pretty lips and bright hazel eyes. Even his accent is charming. His throat tightens, but he tries not to think about this either.

*

Yes, of course, he could just make a pass at him. But they’re never alone, and he sucks at it, he’s officially the worst flirt of Berlin. And then, what? What if Paul turns him down? It would be mortifying and mar their relationship forever. And if he doesn’t, it would be even worse: Flake’s longest relationship having lasted a good six weeks, the possible outcomes are pretty dire.

Usually, he turns to Paul for advice on these matters. Hell, it’s Paul who gave him pointers before his first kiss (“It’s like eating an apple but without the teeth”) and before his first time (“It’s like unblocking a sink except hot”). But he can’t have serious talks with Paul, lately. Not to mention the fact that he’s the matter at hand. He’ll have to figure it out alone, this time. Trusting Paul is easy, trusting himself, not so much.

*

On a spectacularly starry night, the most unlikely thing happens: a girl Flake has never seen before seems eager to get to know him. She speaks Russian and they can hardly understand each other, but they end up spending the night together in her tent. The morning after, Flake doesn’t remember much—clumsy kisses, a heated, sticky shag with a pretty girl way out of his league. His hangover is tremendous, and Paul seems determined to make it worse.

“I waited for you the whole night,” he snaps when Flake comes back to the camp.

“Sorry.” Flake makes a beeline to his bag and pops a pill. “Hangover.” Paul glares. At first, Flake thought that he was kidding, but he looks tired and peeved, with sad purple shades under his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, surprised.

“Nothing.” He fidgets with his pack of cigarettes. “What’s with this girl? She looked bitchy.”

Flake frowns. “She didn’t. She was sweet. And she had really lovely tits, and -” Paul glowers and blushes hard; Flake shakes his head, at a loss. “What -”

“Hurry up, we said we’d stop by the cottage and help with the beans,” Paul cuts him.

Not only they don’t arrive late, but they’re actually early, the old lady is still drinking her coffee. Paul and Flake join her in silence, then they get to work. Flake is busy in the garden, as usual, and Paul stays in to help her make conserves.

When Flake gets back in, tired and sweaty, the cold darkness of the room stuns him, and he overhears something that he maybe shouldn’t have: the old lady goes silent and Paul glances at him guiltily from behind the hot steam curls coming from his cup of tea.

“You have more power than you think,” she was telling Paul, and Paul nodded slowly. His eyes were shadowed, he looked serious and dreamy.

The unease only lasts a second; then she invites him to sit down and Paul shares his slice of pie with him.

*

The first thing he feels is the heat of Paul’s body, pressed tight on his side. They’re on a bed, he doesn’t know whose. It’s small and narrow, maybe his childhood’s. Paul smiles at him, a few centimeters away from his face, and it strikes him: it’s her. It’s hard to tell, they’re so alike, but Flake knows. It’s her heavy-lidded eyes, the playful, unabashed spark of lust there. She’s wearing the usual worn jeans, the usual oversize faded shirt, but the denim is tight around her hips and the loose collar of the shirt threatens to slip down her shoulder. Flake is hard pretty much instantly. As if she knew, she gently puts her hand on the crotch of Flake’s pants, and rubs.

Her mouth is slick and familiar against his; he doesn’t try to understand and follows. His hands disappear under her shirt: blindly, he feels the curve of her breasts and her hard nipples against his palms, the smoothness of her belly. She’s naked, all of a sudden, and he is too, she sits on his hips and grinds against him, slippery and hot. Her eyes are black, shadows play on her skin. She’s incredibly light, almost immaterial. She doesn’t talk at all, which is so unlike Paul.

Then she is gone, or so he thinks: she’s lying next to him, now, on her belly, and she looks at him from over her shoulder. Paul grins, beguiling, opens her legs, tips her hips. Flake caresses her, wide strokes from her thighs to her ass, round and firm under his hands, drags his fingers along the slit… When she gets impatient, he holds her waist with trembling hands and thrusts in. She’s warm and wet and snug around him, she slithers and undulates and she moans, moans he heard before, maybe that night, maybe the time Paul didn’t properly close the door when his girlfriend was staying over. One of her hands is out of sight, she’s touching herself, Flake realizes, somehow he can perceive her fingers rub her clit, and she comes really quickly, tensing and throbbing around him, slow hard squeezes around his cock. He doesn’t come, somehow, which doesn’t really make sense because she feels amazing; he goes on and on until her hand slips between their bodies to grab his cock: her thin callused fingers angle him higher, he bumps against the tight little hole. It’s so slippy everywhere that he slides in easily; the muscle gives way and it’s another fit, another warmth, she whimpers and coos, and –

Flake wakes up with a gasp, his hips stuttering against the mattress, coming hot and sticky in his underwear.

Astounded, he blinks and slowly comes back to his senses. He’s in the van, daylight is peeking in, it was a dream, of course it was. But it was so much sharper than the ones he’s been having lately that he’s all troubled and shaky. He groans when he feels the mess he made and reaches out blindly for his glasses.

On the other bunk, Paul is lying on his side, facing him. His hands gently folded under his cheek, he’s looking at Flake, his eyes, dark and sharp and unreadable, boring straight into him. He smirks.

It hits Flake right in the chest, a cold coil of unease and confusion. He knows, he first thinks, then, It was him, he did this. Sure, he could’ve made noises or ground against the mattress too obviously, it wouldn’t have been the first time, but this has nothing to do with the sly bawdy grin Paul usually gives him in these situations.

“Huh,” he mumbles dumbly. Paul’s face softens instantly, he looks as casual and impish as ever.

Knolli’s face peeks in. “It’s always the same, everybody’s waiting for you.”

Paul gets up swiftly. He stretches, his shirt rides up. The pale sliver of skin makes Flake’s head spin with desire. “Come on. Flake will catch up,” he says, and they disappear through the little door of the van.

*

“Nah, I’ve never seen that girl before,” Stach tells him later that day. “She just stopped by. She loved your cookies, I think, she ate like half of them.”

Flake tries to hide it, but the realization almost knocks him out: the cookies! He completely forgot about his ridiculous experiment. He’d helped the old lady make a tray of cookies for them, and just before putting them in the oven, he’d remembered what they’d read in the book: not thinking about it too much, he’d shoved his hand in his pants and stuck two hairs in two different cookies, with the clear intention to feed them to Paul. Inwardly, he groans, not knowing what is the most embarrassing: that he’d plotted to feed his pubes to his best friend because of a stupid witchcraft book, or that he forgot about it altogether quickly enough that someone else ate them. The most astounding of all being of course that it seems that it worked.

“It’s funny,” goes on Stach, oblivious to Flake’s inner turmoil. “I had no idea you were into—I thought you and Paul...”

“What? No.” Flake swallows thickly. “It’s not—It’s not really like that.”

“He’s so different when you’re around.” Stach pulls on his joint, his eyes meet Flake’s. “If I had known, I would’ve made a pass at him already. You really look like -”

“You do guys?”

Stach shrugs. “Paul’s not that different from a girl.”

Flake frowns, piqued. It’s exactly how he feels about Paul, but he has a good reason to do so. And he wouldn’t think of it as an insult, but he’s well aware that most of the rest of the world would.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s not like it’s a bad thing,” Stach adds with a sly smile. Then, seemingly out of nowhere: “You know, this word babcia uses to call you sometimes? Chrześniaczki? It doesn’t mean godsons as I told you. It means goddaughters.”

Flabbergasted, Flake blushes hard. It’s not exactly a surprise, but out of the cocoon of the cottage, it sounds wrong, almost humiliating. Stach doesn’t seem particularly mocking, nor fazed, actually. Flake really wonders how much he knows. He turns it around and around in his head and comes up with a rather neutral, “Hey, uh. Are you, like. Like us?”

Stach smirks, a bit challenging. “We’re a lot alike, right?” He takes another drag. “But I don’t have what you two have.”

It could mean many things, but there is something that needs more urgent clarification.

“Actually, about that. I mean, Paul. Please, just...” Stach raises an eyebrow. “Don’t,” he says weakly. “It’s c-complicated.”

Stach chuckles and hands him the joint. “Yeah, I figured.”

*

“All I’m saying is that we’ve never seen Aljoscha and the ram at the same place at the same time.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “Nonsense. They have a completely different character.” He pauses. “Plus it’s basically a blasphemy to imply that the ram could be anything else than -”

On an impulse, Flake, sick with frustration and longing, brings a hand to the crook of Paul’s neck. He’s startled by how smooth his skin is, there, it feels warm, sun-kissed. He lets his fingertips linger and traces his throat with his thumb. Paul doesn’t say anything: he looks away, maybe annoyed, maybe baring his neck. Flake freezes and gulps hard. When he sees a little smile curl at the corner of his lips, his heart skips a beat.

“Paul,” he whimpers, overwhelmed.

But before he could answer anything, Aljoscha barges in, getting sand all over their books, and plops down next to them, oblivious.

“I found us a gig for tonight,” he announces.

Paul hums absently. He looks flushed and a bit guilty, but there is no guilt at all in the knowing look he gives Flake.

*

“You know, I’ve played with a bunch of bands, but you’re the only ones who manage to win a crowd like that,” says Knolli after the show—actually a sloppy improvised thing on the beach, “even though it’s always a complete mess. It’s like you hypnotize them or something.”

“You mean it’s like we cast a spell,” Paul grins.

“Yeah, something like that.”

*

And then one night, Paul doesn’t come back. Flake doesn’t know what happened, they spent the evening together, all of them, and when the time came to go to sleep, Paul was nowhere to be found.

Flake doesn’t sleep a wink. At first, he tries not to think about it too much, but soon, jealousy gets a tight hold on him, a hold he can’t shake for hours and hours. He’s sure he’s with Stach, or with anyone else—he goes through all the people they spent time with that day, there are plenty of choices. By dawn, it’s not even about that anymore: he’s just devastatingly worried. At some point, he does fall asleep. He wakes up late, squinting because of the sun.

He finds Paul at the breakfast table as if nothing had happened. He looks a bit pale but fine. Nobody seems fazed, they all get lucky every once in a while. But it feels different, now. Flake gives Paul a hard, cold look when he smiles at him.

As soon as they have a minute of privacy, Paul leans towards him and whispers, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

Flake’s heart drops. “Couldn’t resist what?”

“Why didn’t you come with me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you feel it too?”

He doesn’t have the time to ask him what this is all about: Aljoscha fetches Paul to help him with the dishes and Flake stays at the table, dejected.

He spends the rest of the day keeping track of everything Paul does, and nothing is weird, nothing at all. And then Paul disappears again when they’re starting to set up the camp for the night. But only for a minute: soon, Flake spots him wandering off with what seems to be a duffle bag and a quilt.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he hastily tells Knolli: he shrugs on a jacket, and sets off to track Paul. The moon is full and bright, tonight, the slight silhouette is easy to spot. Flake expected Paul to go in the direction of the village, but he heads towards the beach.

They walk for a while in the darkness, a few dozens of meters apart from each other. Paul doesn’t look back, he seems to know where he’s going. Flake’s heart beats so hard that it overshadows the hums and whispers of the night.

When they get to the shore, the sea and the sky unfold, black and shimmery, a stark contrast to the pale sand of the beach. Flake slows down, he’s exposed, here, and if Paul turns back, he’d be easy to spot.

From a distance, he watches Paul settle next to what must be a makeshift fire pit. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but he’s busy. After a little while, he lights the fire and sits next to it. And then, nothing. With trepidation, Flake decides to approach. Paul is sitting on the spread quilt, eyes closed, his face tipped up. He’s smoking a joint—Flake notices the smell. He’s naked.

“Paul, what the fuck are you...”

Paul turns to him. His eyes are shadowed. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“No, I have no idea what you mean, what...” He frowns, at a loss. “What are you doing?”

“I—I’m not sure.” Flake sees his eyes gleam, wide and uncertain. “I haven’t been feeling quite like myself, lately,” he murmurs. Flake’s heart pounds harder: he knows the feeling. “Did you notice how full and bright the moon is tonight? I can feel it on my skin.”

“Paul, you’re high.”

He shrugs and hands him the joint. “‘M glad you came. Something was missing last night.”

“You were here already?” He nods. “But why?...”

“Don’t know,” he shrugs. “It just feels good here. I feel… whole.” Holding Flake’s gaze, he lies back on the quilt.

It does feel good, the night is beautiful, bristling with life, possibilities… It’s making him a bit light-headed. Paul pats a spot next to him.

Flake sighs, but sits down and takes a drag of the joint. “I’ve been feeling weird too, lately,” he mutters weakly.

He looks at the sky where it blends into the sea at the horizon, black and dusted with light. Flake squints, but you can’t tell them apart. The breeze is soft, strangely lukewarm, a caress on his cheek. Before he knows it, he’s in the position he found Paul in, face tilted up, offered to the stars.

Troubled, he snaps out of it and looks at Paul. His face heats up: it feels unfair, to look at him like that, defenseless and exposed, but he can’t help it. He looks eerily white, ghostly, almost, but after a while, Flake notices more—the flickers of the flames’ light licking at his side, the iridescent glow of the moon giving his thighs a supernatural sheen. The jut of his hips, mother-of-pearl… His fingers itch to touch, so much that his throat tightens. It would be so easy, it could even be what Paul is waiting for, but he can’t bring himself to. He’s transfixed; he’s afraid that if he touches him, everything will fade, like a reflection in the water.

Without thinking about it, he undresses too and lies next to him. Paul takes his hand and they stay like that for a while. Flake’s sense of scale is completely dislocated, he’s both overwhelmed by a deep, oceanic feeling of longing, and extremely aware of the warmth of Paul’s fingers tangled with his. It’s a bit like that night, but not as crazy, just a twinge of extra intensity, a slight acceleration of his pulse…

Eventually, they curl up together under a duvet Paul brought. It’s the first time they’ve been alone for weeks, Flake has been fantasizing about this moment for days and days, and yet he can’t bring himself to initiate anything. They’re so comfortable, the two of them entwined in silence…

He has the strangest dreams. They’re hardly dreams, actually: it’s a fantastic succession of images and sensations, the world shrunken down to the two of them, to Paul, to their skins. He’s hyper-aware of where they touch, warm pulsations where they brush and rub and melt together, expand and constrict to the rhythm of Paul’s heartbeat, or his own, Flake doesn’t know. All he knows is shades of red, the red of flesh, of light seen through closed eyelids, of aroused skin, and the taste of Paul, of his sweat and his lips and his spit on Flake’s skin. Everything morphs and changes, sways and blends, memories from that night and fantasies. He nuzzles the tender spot under the curve of a breast, fingers and dicks and tongues slide in warm, wet orifices, she grinds and arches, her most sensitive spots are pinched and caressed. Sometimes, things stabilize long enough that he can enjoy a long, languid kiss, that she can feel Paul’s cock rub on her clit and then slip inside her; dizzy with pleasure, she throbs and throbs until Flake can’t distinguish Paul from himself, female from male, magic from reality.

*

The next day, it’s pouring, cold, torrential rain covering the landscape in bleak curtains of gray. Aljoscha and Knolli escape to the village to spend the day inside, at the pub. Flake decides to stay in the van to read. It just so happens that Paul wanted to stay in the van too—or so he tries to convince himself.

They do read for a while, each stretched on their respective bunks. The rain drops drum hard on the roof of the van. It’s cool but cozy. Very quiet. Unusually so.

Flake is so busy ignoring Paul’s presence that it takes him a while to realize that Paul isn’t reading, actually. Over his book, he’s looking at him intently. Feeling suddenly antsy, Flake swallows thickly.

Paul gets up and sits on Flake’s bunk. “Do you mind?” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait for Flake’s twitchy nod to lie next to him. Clumsily, Flake tries to rearrange to make a bit of room: the bunks are narrow and it feels that if Paul touches him, he’ll burst into flames or something. He drops his book in the process. Overwhelmed and exposed, he grabs it back immediately, hiding behind it for dear life.

Paul reads a couple more pages—or pretends to—while Flake’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest.

The corner of Paul’s mouth twitches. “Your book is upside-down.”

“Huh?”

To his horror, Flake realizes that Paul is right. A bright flash of heat floods his face. Slowly, Flake moves the book around.

Paul sets his aside. “Am I making you nervous?” he whispers.

Flake wishes he could just crack a joke, as he would in any other circumstances, but he can’t think straight. So he gulps hard and shakes his head. Paul really is awfully close. How can you be so annoying? And since when does he have such a pretty mouth?

He inches even closer. “Can I kiss you?”

A cold rush of adrenaline makes Flake’s head spin. This time, he nods, tongue-tied, both eager and terrified. Paul gives him a little lopsided grin and carefully sets Flake’s book and glasses aside too. It takes ages, it seems; Flake feels on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And then Paul leans in and kisses him on the mouth, a soft press of chapped lips. Flake is so stunned that he has to actively remind himself that he must move, do something, kiss back; all he can muster is a shy purse of his closed lips.

Paul draws back and licks his own, impatient.

“Come on,” he mutters, and he kisses him again, the tip of his tongue sliding demandingly along Flake’s bottom lip, his thumb firm on Flake’s chin. And then Flake’s mouth parts and their tongues touch and all the nervousness drains out of him.

Paul presses closer and Flake cups his cheek. It feels familiar, like they’ve done this before, and Flake realizes they did. As different as the circumstances are, Paul’s mouth is the same, keen and smooth and curious. Flake’s skin is prickling with anticipation, with heat; it’s a deep, sloppy kiss, quite straightforward in its intention: it’s not just making out that Paul wants. And Flake doesn’t either, he really doesn’t, but he isn’t sure which way to go. From their own volition, his hands cling to Paul’s back, run on his shirt. He wishes it was off and pulls at it ineffectively. Tilting his head, nipping his lips, Paul sighs and shoves Flake’s hand further down, past the buckle of his belt, between his legs. It takes Flake a whole second to realize what he’s feeling under his palm, stiff and constricted in scruffy jeans, and when he does, he withdraws bluntly, as if burnt. Paul frowns, surprised, then blushes spectacularly.

“Uh, sorry,” he blurts out after an awkward pause.

“No -”

“I thought you’d -”

“Sorry, I -” Flake clutches at Paul’s shirt again, at a loss. “Please, P-Paul...” Paul is bright red, looking confused and dejected. At a loss, Flake whispers, “I never did this with a guy.”

He thought that he’d manage to bluff and hide his inexperience longer, that this weird misunderstanding where because of a particularly strange turn of events, Paul could believe that Flake knows what he’s doing, that the few hook-ups he had before hadn’t been monuments of awkwardness, that he could even be kind of good at it… But clearly, this isn’t happening. God, he feels sober—painfully so.

Paul avoids his gaze. “Me neither.” Then, his darkened eyes back on Flake: “But I want to.”

“Me t-too,” he stutters hastily. “I just don’t know how… You know.” Paul raises an eyebrow. “How it works.”

Paul chuckles. “It can’t be that difficult.” He brushes his fingertips down Flake’s neck, a gentle, tentative touch. “We’re a lot like girls.”

“We’re boys, Paul,” protests Flake weakly, his fingers still tingling from their fresh acquaintance with Paul’s denim-clad hard-on. He didn’t mean to, but it sounds weirdly wistful.

“Not any boys,” he answers with a thin smile. “Special boys.” His fingers slide to the back of Flake’s neck. After a pause, he goes on tentatively. “What do you want me to do?”

This is easy: “Take this off,” answers Flake, pulling at Paul’s shirt again. And without hesitation, Paul drags it up and off.

“Uh, the twins are gone,” he says with a weird, self-conscious smile that Flake has never seen before. The fact that Paul might be more nervous than he pretends to be hits him hard.

“I don’t care.”

He really doesn’t: he slowly strokes down Paul’s chest and his skin is just as smooth and delicate as that night. It feels wonderful under his fingertips, and even better when goosebumps break out, a certain brush making him shiver. Flake figures that Paul still likes the same things, why wouldn’t he, so he gingerly circles a nipple, then rubs the hardened tip when he feels him arching against his hand: Paul’s breath catches in his throat, so he does it again. He pinches him gently and considers putting his mouth there, sucking on it, but when he notices the way Paul looks at him, eyes glassy and hooded and sort of stunned, he loses track of everything.

His hand drops to Paul’s belt, and, toying absentmindedly with the buckle, he whispers, “This too. T-take it off.”

Slowly, as if not to scare him away, Paul does. Transfixed, Flake looks at his belly hollowing gently as he breathes, sharp, shallow breaths that display his arousal almost as clearly as the obvious contours of his hard-on under the worn fabric of his underwear. Heart beating fast, he hooks a finger under the elastic waist. “And this.”

Paul slides it down and kicks it off. Hesitant, he touches his ponytail. “Do you want me to?...”

Flustered, Flake nods, and Paul unties his hair. He just lies there as Flake doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s not staring, eyes skimming hungrily on every plane and crease of bare skin. The light falling from the dirty sunroof of the van is bleak and unforgiving. He notices things he never noticed before, a little scar on a shoulder, a pale blemish under his ribs. Freckles and beauty marks on the most tender spots. The faded blue of veins where the skin is the thinnest. Dark shadows under his eyes; Paul looks tired and vulnerable, like Flake’s reflection in the rearview mirror of the van lately. His earring gleams, a cold, liquid spark. Flake strokes his hip, his thigh, fuzzy and warm under the pulp of his fingers, but doesn’t dare run them on the raised, intriguing line under his cock, arched and flushed with arousal.

In a flash of inspiration, he grabs his hand and guides it to his crotch, repeating Paul’s gesture from a minute ago. After all, that night, Paul didn’t mind touching herself in front of Flake, she even seemed to enjoy it, so.

“Show me how you like it,” he whispers, so low that he’s afraid Paul won’t hear. But he does; he tightens his fingers around his shaft, and, after a second of hesitation, lets Flake watch his fist slide up and down, up and down.

Flake doesn’t know what he expected: Paul jerks off exactly how he does, how anybody does, probably, but it’s not what it’s about anyway. He doesn’t tear his eyes away as he strokes his chest, his flanks, his bicep gently swelling as he moves. Head spinning with desire, he licks his lips and presses them to Paul’s, eager and parted. Paul whimpers and Flake notices that he closed his eyes. “Don’t,” he breathes. “Don’t shut your eyes.”

Reluctantly, Paul opens them, and Flake holds his gaze as his hand follows Paul’s arm, the tense tendons of his wrists, to replace his hand with his. He sees Paul’s eyes losing focus, his lips part, which is so hot that he almost drops everything to touch himself through his pants. But he doesn’t: instead, he tightens his fingers and marvels at how Paul’s dick feels in his fist, warm and hard and smooth. It’s easy to give it the nice firm pulls he often gives himself, but after only a few minutes, Paul stops him.

“Come on.” His voice is husky, a bit breathless. “Get undressed too.” Which sounds fair, plus Flake is so overheated that everything feels nasty and clingy against his skin. Paul unties his scarf, helps him out of his clothes, and when they’re done, he rolls them over to lie pressed tight against him, a leg between Flake’s.

Flake whimpers: all this soft warm skin feels amazing against his, and again, he has a moment of déjà-vu, a sense of familiarity that makes everything easier. Finally having what he’d wanted for days, weeks, even, feels less nerve-wracking than it should be. Giving the most important relationship of his life a twist that won’t be easily undone, too.

As Paul kisses him again, Flake caresses his back, holding him tight, and grinds against him. All of him craves to be touched, from his shoulders to his thighs to the tip of his cock. Overwhelmed, he hiccups a little moan. Paul’s lips leave his and wander along his jaw, in the crook of his neck. He licks and nibbles there; sparks of pleasure bloom on Flake’s skin and explode under his closed eyelids.

And slowly, Paul heads down. He kisses his chest, right where Flake had hickeys that took days and days to fade; he follows the plane of his sternum then nips his way to his navel. Flake’s belly quivers under his lips. The tip of his tongue slides on the hard ridge of a hip, and he pauses.

Stretched between Flake’s open legs, he’s so close that Flake feels his warm, shallow breath against his cock, which, predictably enough, twitches. Paul notices: he grins and inches closer to blow, mischievous and deliberate, on the sensitive head. Flake’s whole body jolts.

“Paul,” he whines, and it sounds lame and needy, but it’s apparently just what Paul was waiting for: he presses a series of tentative kisses from the base of his cock to its tip and rubs there with his tongue, wet and smooth and pretty much unbearable. “Please,” he sighs, hips tilted up.

Paul glances up and goes for it: he grabs Flake’s cock and suckles on the head, then lets it slip deeper until his stretched lips meet the ring of his fingers. Flake chokes out a moan: it’s warm and slippery and perfect, hot, delightful waves flowing from his dick to his head. Paul goes on conscientiously, breathing through his nose and hollowing his cheeks, and Flake feels like he’s drifting, the gritty ceiling of the van fading to gray, washed away by pleasure. But this time, he’s the one who puts it to a stop.

“Wait,” he mumbles, pulling Paul by the shoulder.

He looks up. “You don’t like it?”

Paul mindlessly touches his mouth, eventually plucking what has to be one of Flake’s pubes from somewhere in his mouth. He giggles, half-nerves, half-embarrassment, it seems. Astounded, Flake gulps hard. “Oh no, I do. I really do. But I want to, too—turn around, so that I can -”

After some wiggling, Paul lies next to him, his head at Flake’s hips and his legs folded on the pillow. Flake squints: his dick is dangerously close, which is what he wanted, but -

As Paul squirms and gets on his side, Flake sees beads of precome glisten and drip on his belly, trickle on his hip. Flake wipes it off and rubs his fingertips together: a web of translucent threads shines in the dim light, just like when Flake’s wet sticky finger slipped out of Paul’s pussy, that night, and shimmered in the light of the flames…

“You’re really wet,” he whispers.

At the other side of the bed, Paul smirks, his eyes so glassy they’re almost unreadable. “Finger me?”

Flake’s face heats up again: Paul opens his legs, a clear invitation. Curious and aroused, Flake runs his slick fingers on the sensitive spot right behind his balls, then further, a gentle press against his hole. Paul’s hips squirm and for a minute, Flake fears he misunderstood.

“Come on,” whines Paul impatiently.

So Flake pushes in all the way, which makes Paul gasp, sigh, and resume sucking on his cock. Flake decides to do the same: after mouthing tentatively along the silken shaft, he pops the tip in his mouth. It tastes briny, musky, slightly marine, somewhat like Paul’s pussy, somewhat different. Feeling him throb against his tongue is astounding: Flake moans, overwhelmed and weak.

The angle is disastrous, his good hand is busy, it really isn’t the most comfortable thing on earth, their position and everything happening at once, but it’s so good, so much, that he thinks they’re on a good way to both come like this—until Paul decides to take a break.

“But why -” protests Flake immediately.

“There are other things I want to try,” he smiles, sly and so obviously turned on that Flake’s breath catches in his throat. Paul moves around so they lie with their head on the same side of the bunk again.

“Like what?”

“Wanna fuck me?” His voice doesn’t falter, but he’s a bit breathless, a bit twitchy. Speechless, Flake just nods. Paul doesn’t back off. “How do you want me?”

Blood pounding at his temples, not quite believing what is happening, Flake answers spontaneously, “On your belly.”

He’s not about to tell Paul that the only time he ever did that was in a dream. Of her, on top of that. Paul rolls over and Flake settles between his parted legs. It doesn’t look that different—Flake runs his hand down his back, on his waist, his ass: this doesn’t feel quite the same, but he tries not to get distracted. He lines up and pauses. “Do I just -”

“Uh-huh,” whispers Paul, looking at him from the corner of his eyes. But he immediately tenses when Flake presses further. It’s not like in the dream anymore, he’s incredibly tight and it’s not nearly as slick and -

Flake spits in his hand, spreads it wherever he can, and tries again. He does slip inside, but not by much. Paul groans, and it doesn’t sound like groans of pleasure at all.

“You okay?” Flake gulps. “You’re very tense, you need to relax, I think -”

“Hmm,” he mumbles through gritted teeth. “You’re all the way in?”

Flake huffs out a chuckle. “No, not at all, should I -”

Paul looks back at him, annoyed or distressed, very red. “Just shove it in all the way. I don’t care if it hurts, let’s get it over with.”

Feeling stupid and helpless, Flake bends to kiss his shoulders and tries to press a bit further, but as soon as Paul winces, he withdraws. His hands are shaking and his heart is pounding, but not in a good way anymore.

“Flake, what are you -”

“Fuck it, I’m not d-doing it.”

“But -”

“I d-don’t wanna hurt you. I’m not d-d-... not d-doing this.” He feels himself getting upset, his hands are unsteady and his face is burning with embarrassment. If none of them does anything, he’s afraid that he’s going to do something utterly awkward, like say something really dumb or start crying. He plops on his side to lie next to Paul again. He’s not even hard anymore—great.

After a minute of hesitation, Paul turns around too. He’s bright red, his face is closed. For a second, Flake thinks he’s mad, and then he suddenly realizes he’s ashamed. He’s softening too: at least, they’re still on the same wavelength, Flake thinks a bit bitterly. Out of his wits, he reaches out to wrap his arms around him. Paul lets him, he lets him cradle him against his chest, Paul’s face buried in his neck.

“We’ll try another time,” he tries. “If you want.”

“Hmm.”

Flake sighs, at a loss. “We don’t—It felt so good, Paul, I loved everything until… I mean, I would -” And then he doesn’t know what gets into him: he decides it’s the perfect moment for a grand declaration. “Listen, I… I l-l-”

This always happens at the worst time: he struggles and pushes and musters all his will, but nothing can get his tongue to properly tap against the back of his teeth, it flutters and recoils and -

“I l-l, I -” he tries again, mortified. His heart is beating so hard that he feels like he’s about to pass out.

“I do too,” murmurs Paul against his throat. Right between his collar bones, he places a wet little kiss that makes Flake so weak that he’s glad he’s already lying down. He tightens his arms around him.

Maybe he should say something, but he can’t bring himself to. An incredible sense of peace washes over him, warm and shimmering. They entwine tighter. The rain is still tapping on the roof, relentless.

After what feels both like the blink of an eye and an eternity, Paul says, voice hoarse, a bit croaky, “I still wouldn’t mind getting off, y’know.”

Flake giggles, surprised. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Paul smiles in the crook of his neck. He kisses the sensitive skin there, gently at first, but it soon increases in intensity, and Flake figures it will leave marks—again. His lips and teeth make him shiver, it’s almost painful, but only almost. Hesitantly, he strokes Paul’s hair, the back of his neck, taking his time.

Paul’s mouth travels up until they’re face to face, noses touching. He barely catches Paul’s gaze—a brief sliver of midnight blue—before they kiss, eager and open-mouthed, Paul’s fingers tight in his hair. Flake wiggles to get closer, so they can tangle their legs. Their hips are close, but they don’t touch: heat pulses and throbs between his legs, half-pleasure, half-anticipation. One of his hands slides on Paul’s back and his fingers settle on the lovely dip just over his ass, until he feels bold enough to drag them low on his belly.

He doesn’t grab his dick right away, he traces it with his fingertips, first, out of curiosity more than to tease; he feels it harden to his touch, feels out the thin, tender skin, brushes the sensitive head. Paul whimpers in his mouth, pulls on his lip with his teeth, then hums softly when Flake tightens his fist. He pumps on it steadily as Paul presses back, enthusiastic and needy. He caresses Flake everywhere he can reach, smooth touches of callused fingers on his thigh and on his ass, up and down his chest, around his neck, on his lips. Flake gasps and Paul slips two fingers in, rough and salty on Flake’s tongue.

“The inside of your mouth,” he whispers with heavy-lidded eyes. “It feels so much like the inside of my pussy—of yours, too...”

Flake whines around the digits, his cheeks burning with a very strange kind of arousal that would be embarrassing with anybody other than Paul, and presses his tongue between the V of the fingers. Obviously delighted, Paul gives him a scalding smile.

“I love your lips,” he murmurs, tracing them as he draws back, and his hand disappears between their bodies to start jerking Flake off. They lean against each other, brow against brow, breathing each other’s air.

Flake’s hips snap and stutter automatically, craving contact; Paul’s hand feels amazing, warm and firm and tight. They’re so close it’s a bit inconvenient, their fists bump each other, but Flake can’t bring himself to care: this closeness, the intimacy of it all, it’s dizzying and good, it makes the warm glow of pleasure brighter. But after yet another readjustment, they both spontaneously swap to touch themselves. It’s more convenient and it doesn’t make much of a difference, after all: they’re so tightly entwined he can feel Paul’s breath growing more and more hectic on his lips. Precome drips on the back of his hand—he doesn’t know if it’s Paul’s or his.

“I’m close,” he mutters, breathless.

“I’m getting there, wait for me.”

Flake whimpers, annoyed and overheated and not sure he can make it, delightful shivers prickling down his spine, but he tries his best, loosening his grip a little until Paul moans, which doesn’t help at all, and sort of nuzzles his cheek and gasps, “Yes, now.”

On an impulse, he shoves his hips forward to slip his dick between Paul’s thighs, and it’s there, squeezed in damp, tender skin, that he comes, the tension giving way to a pulsating explosion of pleasure. They twitch and groan pretty much in sync, Paul’s spunk drips on his belly and his own makes Paul’s body even slicker, hotter, feeling just like...

Faces smashed together, boneless and quaky, they catch their breath in silence. Flake tries to remember the last time he felt so relieved, so happy, but he can’t come up with anything. So he gives up and enjoys the afterglow, the sticky warmth of Paul’s body against his.

Eventually, Paul wipes his hand on the duvet.

“We’ve made a mess,” he mumbles. “We can swap, I’ll sleep here.”

Flake smiles. “I don’t mind. I mean, I’ll sleep here. Too.” He gulps. “If you want.”

Paul rolls on his back and grins. Flake looks at his profile, shadowed by the dimness of the van. His neck and cheeks are bright red, which makes Flake swoon.

“It worked, didn’t it?” he muses after a while. “The spell?”

Paul doesn’t look at him. “Mine did.”

Flake hesitates but places a pointy little kiss on the curve of his shoulder anyway. “Mine too.”

A quick side glance, soft and glassy. “You didn’t really need it,” he chuckles. Baffled and exhilarated, Flake sees him blush even more.

“You d-didn’t either.”

They stay huddled together until the rain dies down. It’s only then that they get dressed and join the others at the pub.

*

Flake sleeps under the dirty duvet, his face buried in Paul’s hair.

*

 

 

“Come look,” says the woman when they arrive at the cottage. They follow her to the back of the garden, where the bushes are wild, stalks and sprigs twisting in a maze. “It bloomed last night.”

Among smooth green leaves, they find a bunch of blooming flowers. They’re dark purple, narrow and velvety; the yellow pistils peek out beguilingly. Flake thinks of the color of the shade under Paul’s eyes, of the marks he left on Flake's neck, the delicate edges of lips. The silken veined skin of eyelids, or…

A spark flickers in Paul’s eyes, he gives Flake a gentle, radiant smile he’s never seen before. Flake’s heart swells, filling up with the murmur of the leaves and the headiness of the smells and the brightness of the sun.

He brushes a finger on the rim of a flower. It’s soft and fragile. He slips it in until it bumps at the back, close to where the shiny black fruit will be. He knows the page from his book by heart: two cause severe intoxication and ten are enough to kill. Only the ones who know can use the leaves. The bloom detaches; it lays light and smooth in his palm. It looks harmless, but they know better. He tucks it behind Paul’s ear.

“It is yours,” she says. “I will teach you.”

They follow her back inside.

When they come back to the camp later on, hand in hand, fingers still sticky with sap, Knolli wolf-whistles, and Aljoscha grins knowingly.

“Hear I noises? songs that follow?
Hear I tender love-petitions?” he sing-songs.

Paul and Flake don’t need to say anything: they smile and sit down with them.

Notes:

When looking for a new name for what was at the time Feeling Berlin, Paul was thinking of Bella Donna. They didn’t go on with his choice and opted for Feeling B instead.

Belladonna is a highly toxic nightshade, it’s hallucinogenic and unpredictable. Legends say that it was an ingredient of the flying ointment that witches used to fly to the sabbath. Its name means “Beautiful woman” in Italian; it was used to dilate the pupils and get black, glassy eyes during the Renaissance.