Page 26 of Branding the Bat

His shift at the casino started at eight PM. He had the whole day. He cleaned his apartment, which was already clean but could always be cleaner. He rearranged his fruit drawer, which was a thing he did when he was happy, the same way he ate depression figs when he was sad. A therapist would have a field day with that information.

He watched a documentary about cuttlefish, masters of disguise, capable of changing their color and texture inmilliseconds to match any surface, visible only when they chose to be. He thought about Trevor.

Not about the workshop. Not about the duffle bag or the closed door or the tubes that connected to the base unit for purposes Trevor wouldn't explain. Those thoughts were there. Sero was a bat, he didn't forget things that lived in the dark. But in that moment, they were background noise. The foreground was filled by the bathtub, the quiche, and the way Trevor had held him on the couch while he slept. The way Trevor had said ‘I'd like to keep trying, if you would.’ The way the apartment had smelled like lavender, cedar, and home.

Sero was happy. He recognized the feeling because it was rare enough to notice, a looseness in his shoulders, a willingness to sit still without the restless itch that usually drove him to the closet rod. He was happy, and the happiness was specifically Trevor-shaped, and that was terrifying in the way that all good things were terrifying to someone who'd been trained by experience to expect them to end.

He thought about Wednesday. The session. The machine, the flogger, the space. He thought about Trevor's face during the eye-contact orgasm, the way the Dom mask had cracked, the way the man underneath had been visible for exactly long enough to break Sero's heart in the best possible way.

He thought about the closed door, and he let the thought pass, like a card he'd seen and filed and would count later.

His phone buzzed. Trevor:Thinking about you. Saturday was perfect.

Sero smiled.It was. The persimmon was a nice touch.

I told you, I research everything. What are you doing right now?

Watching a documentary about cuttlefish.

The ones that change color?

The ones that change EVERYTHING. Color, texture, shape. They can look like a rock, a piece of coral, another fish. Complete transformation.

That sounds exhausting. Imagine never being yourself.

Sero stared at the message. It was a throwaway line, a quip about cuttlefish, nothing more. But something about it snagged in his mind. Imagine never being yourself. Trevor, who had a workshop he wouldn't show. Trevor, who was "freelance" in a way he couldn't explain. Trevor, who deflected and stiffened and changed the subject when the conversation got too close to whatever lived behind the closed door.

Was Trevor ever himself? Was the man who made quiche and bought persimmons and held Sero in the bath the real Trevor, or was he another color on the cuttlefish's skin, beautiful, convincing, temporary?

You okay?Trevor texted.You went quiet.

I'm here,Sero typed.Just thinking.

About?

About how some creatures are so good at disguise that even they forget what they actually look like.

A long pause. Then:That's either very philosophical or very pointed.

Can't it be both?

Another pause.I suppose it can. I'll see you Wednesday, Sero.

Wednesday.

He put his phone down and looked at the cuttlefish on the screen, shimmering through a reef, its real body invisible beneath a cascade of borrowed colors.

Wednesday was two days away. Trevor was cooking him quiche and buying him persimmons and booking four weeks of Wednesdays.

Whatever was behind the door, it could wait.

Chapter Eight

Trevor showed up at Sero's apartment on Tuesday evening without food, without the duffle bag, and without the confidence that Sero had come to associate with his presence the way he associated cedar with his scent. He stood in the doorway looking like a man about to walk into traffic who knew the light was red.

"You look terrible," Sero said.

"I need to talk to you."