Mikal stood at the door. He had woken up and gotten dressed. He had picked up the newest story. It was just a page long, but it was very powerful. At least...he thought so. He gulped, nervous. He knew Uto would have read the story by then and he was nervous about what he would think.

 

Slowly Uto got out of bed, showered, and then dressed, rubbing the water from her hair. Walking to the door he opened it. "Come on," he said softly, walking over towards the coffee table. "I read your story last night. It was good. Real good." He said softly, sitting down, an empty cigarette carton on the table. He put them in the trash, "Sit, are you hungry? Thirsty?"

 

Mikal sat and looked down, holding his bag in front of him. "Good..." he murmured. "I suppose that...describes it..." He'd never thought of it as good. "No. I'm fine..." Thinking about the story he couldn't think of drinking or eating.

 

Leaning back he stared at him for a long moment, his hand resting on his knee. "Are you alright?" he asked softly, one of his books on the coffee table in front of them. He cleared his throat and looked over at him. "Do you want to talk about it?" he whispered softly, raising his eyes to look at him.

 

Mikal tried to ignore the book sitting on the table. "I don't know...what would you like to know?" he whispered. He hugged his bag tighter to his chest.

 

He swallowed, not saying anything for a moment and ran his hands through his hair. "Listen." He said softly, biting his bottom lip. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to...I just...I'm here for you...if you want to..." He suddenly felt awkward talking about all of this and he itched the back of his head.

 

Mikal struggled with the tears in his eyes and then the battle was lost. He started to cry, the silent sobs shaking his body as his ears drooped to his head. He was remembering...something he hadn't done in awhile. He didn't want Uto to see this, but he couldn't move. "It's all my fault," he said between sobs. "He suffered so much cause of me. I was too weak to come out uninjured but too strong to die. He not only had to lose our parents he had to drop out of the school he loved to take care of me, and it's all my fault..."

 

Going over to him his ears lopped a bit and then slowly he wrapped his arms around him, rocking him. "Shhh," he whispered softly, patting his back. "Taskito did it because he cares for you. He did it because you mean a lot to him. He did it because he loves you more then you could ever know. Don't ever think badly of yourself because he cares for you like that. Don't ever think you should hate yourself because he loves you."

 

Without even realizing it, Mikal's wrapped his arms around Uto’s waist. His sobs quieted as he nuzzled his head into Uto's shoulder. Somehow Uto's words made sense.

 

Taking in a deep breath Uto closed his eyes, rocking him back and forth until he quieted.

Suddenly Mikal jumped and pulled away slightly, and his eyes widened. "I'm...I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to break down like that..."

 

Then, when he pulled away he shook his head. "It is fine." His eyes turned unemotional once more and he cleared his throat softly. "Now, are you sure you don't want something to drink?"

 

Mikal nodded once slowly and pulled out the paper. "Here, read this," he said quietly.

The story was a tale of how a young boy met an older girl. It was an in-depth description of their first meeting. It was brief contact but his story brought it alive.

 

Leaning back Uto took in a breath, letting his eyes skimmed over the work. When he put it down he nodded. "It was...different." He cleared his throat. "When…I've noticed...when you write about something you love and you are passionate about it your words just...seem to flow..."

 

Mikal looked down, hands folded in his lap. "Yes, I suppose. It is...always easier to write when I care about something." He swallowed. He hadn't slept well; he had a dream about Uto last night, though he couldn't remember much. All he remembered was that the dream had Uto in it.

 

He smiled slightly, his first real smile that had been directed at Mikal. "Well, maybe that is something you could consider doing. First lesson, never write a book that you are not passionate about, for that will lead to a poor story. What are some things you are passionate about?"

 

He thought about the question quietly. "True love, people achieving dreams, the stories of the underdogs...." He trailed off. He couldn't think of anything more offhand. "My brother..." he added. "Family." Then he twitched his ears. "Being a writer."

 

He grinned once more, his tail swishing back and forth, "Good. Then, you can start with that," he said, and then rubbed his ear softly, trying to relax him fully. "When I first started writing I knew what exactly I wanted to write about. And here I am."

 

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Do you only write boy-love romance novels? Or do you write anything else?" He was suddenly curious though he wasn't sure why. Why did he care what Uto thought?

 

He shook his head. "No, not really." He chuckled softly. "I wrote a few biographies in my younger years but that is about it." He brushed his hair from his face once more. "When I get about fifty I will probably write one more before I stop writing all together." He shrugged. "They just all come naturally to me."

 

Mikal tilted his head. "How old are you now?" Why was he asking all these questions? As his gaze watched Uto his pencil was to paper, drawing in long wide strokes. It was something he never really thought about. Most of the time he didn't even realize what he was drawing – this was one of those times. As he questioned Uto he didn't even realize Uto's face was beginning to appear on the paper under his graceful strokes.

 

"I turned twenty eight last summer." He was getting old, yes he was, but he had published more then thirty boys-romance books in his years and that was enough for him. Putting another cig into his mouth he lit it. "How old are you? Eighteen, maybe?" he asked, his eyes once more roaming down the boy’s body.

 

He winced. He knew he'd assume that. All high-school seniors were 18, right? "I'm 19.... I couldn't...go to school...for a year." As he finished the drawing of Uto's face, perfect in every way, he dropped the pencil and his left hand rubbed his bandaged right wrist, though he didn't realize he was doing it.

 

Staring at him for a long moment he reached over and then took his wrist softly, and slowly began to unwrap the bandage. "Let me see," he whispered softly, staring down at wrist slowly revealing itself under the unraveling bandage.

 

Mikal winced and wanted to look away but couldn't help but look at Uto's face. Why was Uto doing this? And why did Mikal care whether or not Uto saw his scars? As the bandage unrolled, the scars were revealed. Glass from the window had cut up his arm, and the lower part had been broken in two places. The scars from the breaks were large patches, a little thicker than the skin around it and pale pink. The rest of his lower arm was decorated with crisscrossing pink welts that would never go away. It was ugly, like the rest of his scars.

 

The worst part had been that he hadn't been able to use his arms for months. It had kept him out of school for a year. The worst part had been he hadn't been able to write or draw. He hadn't been able to do either of the things he loved. The emotional scars were still there too. At least they had a small chance of healing...unlike his physical scars.

 

His fingers slowly went down them. There were so many of them, so very many. His fingers continued to go down them, tracing them as he did so. "Beautiful," he whispered softly, and then his eyes met his and they twinkled softly, and then he looked back at them, leaned down, and kissed them softly. "Sometimes pain can lead to something magical," he whispered against the scar, his breath warm against the healed over skin.

 

His eyes looked confused at first. Beautiful? No one had ever called his scars that. And then as Uto kissed the scars his breath quickened. He couldn't control it, his breath quickened without him wanting it to. The skin of the scars had always been more sensitive to the touch. That was the second reason for the bandages - to try and keep them protected. But that sensitivity had always led to pain. This feeling was different. As Uto’s warm breath trickled across the scars Mikal frowned. Trying to control his quickened pace of breath, he pulled at his arm, trying to free it from Uto's grip, wincing slightly when the tugging caused the scars to hurt. "Uhm, Uto...what are you...can I have my arm back?"

 

His eyes opened and then he let go of Mikal’s arm, nodding. "Of...of course." He said softly, his dark hair falling into his eyes and he left it there for once. "Your...your brothers birthday is tomorrow. You did not forget did you?" he asked softly, looking up at him then, his eyes almost cloudy. There was so many things that he wanted to say. So many things that he wanted to do. But he wouldn't. He wasn't in love with him, no he wasn’t. Not yet…his mind whispered quietly but he shook his head to banish the thought.

 

Mikal kept his eyes down, wrapping up the bandage on his arm with the air of expertise that time and practice had given to him. He picked up his book bag and stood, forgetting the drawing he had created, leaving behind the likeness of Uto on the table. "You think I could forget?" he asked harshly. It came out meaner than he wanted it to, but he didn't apologize or take it back.

 

His eyes widened. "I had not meant it like-" But Mikal cut him off.

 

 "I'm going to go now. I'll see you tomorrow, my brother told me to tell you to stop by for his birthday. He has the day off. Good-bye." He turned and ran from the house, fast and light on his feet. The only thing left behind was the story he had written the night before and the picture of Uto he had drawn without realizing it.

 

There were so many things he could have said. So many things he could have done but hadn't. He knew that it hurt him to look at the scars, that it hurt him for other people to look at them. His eyes were downcast as he watched him run and he sat back down, putting his cigarette out. Mm, he wasn't in the mood. Damn, he needed to get laid. Looking over at the paper he picked it up, starring down at it. It was beautiful. It was so much like him; he was surprised – even the seriousness in his eyes. Everything. This boy had talent; talent Uto would get out of him if it killed him.