Do you think this counts as a threesome?”
- What?”
Céleste had turned up the sound quite loud. She was adding photos to her Onlyfans, filled mostly with impressive close-ups of her wings, taken with a telephoto lens, to the point where you could see the individual iridescent scales - thousands and thousands of little varnished nails, arranged in butterfly wing patterns. She also had videos of her running her fingers over them to change their direction as if they were sequins on a cushion, for hours on end, and titling them all “ASMR SATISFYING BINAURAL FAIRY WINGS [NO TALKING]”. Long before this site existed, Finn was amazed that people would pay real money for this kind of thing. Today, he marveled that there were people who believed it couldn't exist somewhere in the multiverse.
He had a client waiting for him in about forty minutes, but in the meantime, he was sitting in his briefs and tights on one of the stools in the quasi-star dressing room he shared with Céleste, and he had a letter to write.
He stopped chewing his pen, looked down at his blank sheet, and clarified: “A guy who's haunted by… I don't know. Something that won't let go. Does that count as a threesome?
- I'd make the ghost pay, too,” replied Céleste quickly, without looking up from her laptop.
Finn sighed and patted the still-empty letter. “No, it's not what- Nevermind. Forget it.”
His pen finally descended to the sheet of paper, and with a clumsy hand, he wrote:
James,
He stopped. He had to start somewhere.
Céleste sat cross-legged in her chair and switched tabs to answer her emails. Her wings rustled like a bag of carnival glitter. Finn remembered that he hadn't opened his mailbox all day. Why should he? It was where, inevitably, you'd find emails. There was nothing he hated more in the world than the administrative part of his job. Especially when a sizeable percentage of his clientele found it essential to send him tasteless photos. The price of fame, probably.
Things were definitely looking up, though, since Caldeira had franchised the escort agency he worked for. Such a recognized name in the underworld instantly polished the image of anything. Not that he particularly needed it on a personal level - he wasn't rolling in dough - but he wouldn't have changed jobs for the world. He was really good at it, and even enjoyed it.
That is, as long as he didn't get any dick pics.
He looked at the letter again, where the “James,” followed by a big nothing taunted him. Ironic, the blank-page syndrome, considering he'd written a book about his most bizarre experiences a few years ago to make ends meet. He considered for a moment explaining to James Talloran how he knew him when the other probably didn't even remember him, realized how starting with “You don't know me but I know you” would be monstrously disturbing, and decided instead to begin with a compliment.
I've seen a lot of strange mouths in my life, but I have to say that the scars that frame yours are unparalleled in this world, and my dearest wish is, I confess, to be able to kiss them one day.
He reread his sentence, blushing a little. Was he being too blunt?
I don't really know why I started writing this. I'm sorry about that. But I mean it. And maybe they would heal, who knows?
He smiled. That was better. The pen came back to rest on the paper.
I'm well aware that receiving a Valentine's letter from a guy like me might seem suspicious, but my intentions have nothing to do with work. On the contrary, they're quite pure. It's just that my schedule and your very… delicate personal situation make it all a bit complicated. Despite
“What are you doing?” said Céleste over the paper. Finn gasped as if his tights had electrocuted him. He hadn't even heard her rise from her chair.
Nothing at all,” he lied.
- Is that a letter?
- No. Yes. None of your business.
- I've never seen you so red,” she laughed. Are you writing to a customer? Is this roleplay or what?”
Finn stood up to keep the sheet out of Céleste's reach. His face felt like it was on fire. He'd never been more embarrassed in his life. And yet, only the day before, he'd had a foot fetishist client ask him, while sweating, exactly what the limits were of his ability to add toes to someone, and where he could do it. He'd had to demonstrate it to her, obviously. Being a reality-bending escort had that kind of downside.
“It's not roleplay and it's not a client!” he protested. Céleste flapped her wings in an attempt to reach the paper. Reflexively, he added an extra joint to his legs to grow big enough to slam the letter against the ceiling, and immediately regretted it - it hurt like hell. If he'd thought for three seconds, he'd have stretched his arm instead.
“Not a customer? What do you mean?” puzzled Céleste, perching on the back of the sofa. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Finn? Do you have a crush?”
“Bullshit,” Finn muttered, busy returning to his normal size while folding the paper to prevent her from trying to steal it from him again. Judging by the way his cheeks were baking, his lie must not have been very convincing. Céleste burst out laughing and went out into the corridor, shouting to everyone, “HÉY GUESS WHAT EVERYONE! FINN FELICITY IS IN LOVE!” Finn heard a few colleagues whistle or snigger.
He closed the door behind her with a sigh and dropped heavily onto the sofa, his tall legs crossed over the armrest. He unfolded the letter and continued writing.
Despite our differences, I have the impression that we're each trapped in our own lives in some way. Of course, I'm not comparing the severity of our respective problems, because that wouldn't make any sense - I just keep thinking about this kind of hell you're in. I wish there was something I could do, even if I doubt I could be of much help. But me too, I sometimes wish someone would come and extract me from this sort of fantasized version of myself that people all seem to see, this completely phony sex god shape-shifter role, to dive through the layers of pretence and realize that in reality, I'm just a poor banal guy dying of fright as I write this letter.
I'm a reality bender who's had a permanent identity stuck on him, and I see a guy whose reality couldn't be more horribly fluctuating, and I think to myself, the world is really, really screwed up.
But I also think, maybe he'd understand? Maybe he'd
Laughter in the corridor jolted her out of his trance. What was he thinking, spilling his neuroses to a near stranger like that? What anguish. What would James Talloran think?
He sat back on the sofa with a movement that would probably have broken six ribs in a normal guy and looked at the wall clock - he had more than twenty minutes left. Céleste's sound system, still on, was playing a techno track whose lyrics began with I'm a sick bitch. A nervous chuckle escaped Finn.
His gaze roamed the room, lingering on the mirror on the opposite wall. He didn't really pay much attention to his own appearance most of the time, since he could change it to suit himself, but he had a sort of standard shape to which he always defaulted.
There was no other way to describe him, and he hated really that word, but his reflection made him think of an old whore. Not because of the little wrinkles he was starting to get at the corners of his eyes or because he'd been shaving his head for the past few years, no. In the business, it was often said that you could tell by the eyes before anything else - a kind of jaded weariness. And here she was. He'd never imagined he'd ever see it on himself - maybe he thought he'd be lucky, or that his shifter powers made him different. But it didn't.
He'd had enough of being asked to be desirable, when that was all he knew how to do.
He crumpled up the letter, threw it in the garbage can, grabbed a new sheet of paper, and started again from scratch, frantically, the pen almost guided by an invisible hand.
James,
We're each trapped in a situation that's hard to extricate ourselves from, and that tries to define us as people. I think you understand this too, even if your situation is far more serious and abusive than mine.
I'd like to know who you really are beyond the veil of illusion, and not have to become someone else for you. I don't want to be wanted anymore. I'd like, for once, to simply be loved. I'd like to
He inhaled deeply, realized he was blushing again, and finished his sentence, his heart beating wildly.
I'd like to hold your hand, if you'd like.
Finn Felicity