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The stars glimmered across the water like glitter struck with light. It was quiet, not much sound even for night in the Constant. Wilson wondered why Charlie wasn't out lately – it seemed like she just suddenly gave up chasing them one day, and hadn't been seen since. All the other survivors had been just as confused, but no one was complaining. All it meant to them was that the night had suddenly become safe. Wilson could agree; with the Grue lurking about, a night like this had never been possible. He'd never known the Constant could be so beautiful.
“Wondering what those 'stars' are, dear Higgsbury?” A voice cut through his thoughts from beside him.
Wilson turned his gaze away from the water and faced the man who'd spoken. Maxwell – he'd always been a spindly sort of fellow – was smirking at him with a sort of knowing look that had always pissed him off. Wilson raised a brow.
“What do you mean by that, Maxwell? I'm just enjoying the view.”
There was a pause between them, somewhat awkward in nature. Maxwell shifted his weight from one foot to the other, still smirking slightly. His hooked nose seemed to jump out at Wilson, as it always had in the past. It forever remained the most striking of Maxwell's facial features, aside from his forward-facing chin. While Maxwell had never struck Wilson as particularly handsome, his bias against the former Shadow King had eventually melted away into cautious charm. Not unlike how a magic show inspires first skepticism and then later awe.
Casually adjusting his tie, red against his gray pinstriped suit, Maxwell answered his question.
“You're a scientist, are you not? Many a scientist often wonder what the stars are made of... And given where we are, I thought you especially might find curiosity in the presence of stars here.”
Wilson remained silent and turned his head back towards the water. Maxwell charmed him, and he hated it. He absolutely despised the way that devilish man was able to reach into him with words alone. Or, perhaps, he was merely imagining things. Again. He hoped the darkness would hide his face, for he knew better than to trust it not to betray his inner thoughts to the world.
Finally, he pulled his mouth open in a reply, “I'm a chemist, Maxwell. Not an astrologist.”
Maxwell snorted behind him. The sound made his neck tingle with irritation.
“I was mistaken, then. My apologies, Higgsbury.” His snide tone dropped for a moment. The water rippled quietly before them.
Silence draped over the two of them. Wilson almost liked him better this way... Almost.
“Say, Maxwell...” he began, not moving his eyes from the moonlit pond. A footstep crunched its way closer to him.
“Yes, pal?”
“Do you remember the music?” Wilson had to know.
He had a vague memory of his time on the Shadow Throne, and despite all his memory-wracking he simply could not recall how the song the big gramophone played had went. Granted, most details from the Throne Room had been lost to him. What little remained would constantly fade in and out of his mind, brief and fleeting. He was glad for it, in all honesty. He didn't want to remember.
Maxwell, on the other hand, had spent far longer on the Throne than he had. If anyone could remember the cursed song that damnable gramophone had played nonstop, it would be him. And maybe...
Depending on his answer... Maybe he could trust him. Just for tonight, of course.
Maxwell's blood froze. The music...? He couldn't possibly mean-
“-The... The music? Higgsbury, please be- please be more specific.”
Much to the dismay of his insides and maybe also himself, Wilson confirmed, “In the Throne Room. The song the gramophone played... Do you remember how it went?”
Perspiration began forming on the graying man's forehead. The Throne Room was- Goddamnit, Higgsbury! He should know better than to bring up the Throne!
Maxwell took a deep breath to steady himself. The scientist in front of him must have heard, for he turned away from the water's edge and looked at him – almost directly in the eyes, though closer examination of the angle would have revealed that he was in fact looking at Maxwell's mouth. A puzzled expression adorned Wilson's angular features.
“Maxwell?”
The voice sounded far away. It was only then that Maxwell became aware of his own breathing, fast and shallow and – probably – loud enough to alert Wilson of it. Dizziness engulfed him and he was forced to take an unsure step to reaffirm his balance. Musical notes filled his ears, his eyes, his mind; all-encompassing and cruel. Endless. The gramophone. The gramophone-
Foreign pressure made itself known somewhere on his body, confusing him further. Attempts to fight against it resulted in little more than weak movements of his arms in what could have been vaguely described as a flailing motion. The pressure – hands? – pulled on him. Shapes and blurs flashed before his eyes, but he could not make sense of them. All there was in his world was music.
“Please turn it off!” Maxwell choked out. “Please-”
Wilson, thoroughly frightened by Maxwell's behavior, held the hyperventilating man up by the waist to prevent him from collapsing on the spot. He hadn't realized that something so mundane as mentioning a song would have roused such a volatile reaction. The taller, thinner man was perspiring heavily on his forehead, evident by the glassy sheen it created. Wilson worried.
Arms shaking from exertion, Wilson began lowering Maxwell and himself down towards the grass. Maxwell struggled again, much more weakly than even before. Wilson, sitting beside him, shushed him like a mother shushes a crying babe.
“Shhhhh... There is no music, Maxwell. It's all in your head. Now – come on – breathe with me. One.” Wilson took a deep breath inward, as though to lead by example, and placed his hand firmly on Maxwell's chest.
The first breath caved at the exhale, shaking backwards into shallow, rapid gasps.
“That's alright! You can do it,” He wiped the excess sweat from Max's forehead. “Two!”
Wilson watched over Maxwell, feeling him breathe along. Never before had he experienced such tangible proof that Max really was vulnerable – human? – like the rest of the survivors in the Constant were. Sure, he'd had to patch him up a few times after the occasional hound attack, but never had Maxwell shown this sort of emotional instability to him. Perhaps... perhaps he was worth trusting. For now.
The moon was in a different place in the sky when Maxwell stopped shaking.
Wilson had stopped leading the breathing exercise long ago. Now, he merely sat watch, holding Maxwell's clammy hand firmly in a gesture of comfort.
“I'm sorry, Higgsbury,” Max's soft apology, though quiet, snapped his attention away from the nearby treeline. “I'm sorry you had to see... that.”
Wilson's eyes glittered in the moonlight. He waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture.
“It happens. I don't know what I expected, really. I'm sorry I said what I said to cause it.”
He leaned forward and examined Maxwell's face. It was admittedly hard to see in the poor lighting, but as far as he could tell the sweating had stopped and was beginning to evaporate. Maybe even some color was returning, but there was no way to be sure.
Wilson took mental notes for future conversation with Maxwell, first and foremost being to avoid mentioning anything to do with the Throne Room. It made sense that Maxwell would be having difficulty moving on from that experience. He too had been on the throne; it was not fun. Even with his stay being as short as it was, he had left that place with memory lapses he could only attribute to some fucked-up coping mechanism outside of his conscious control. Maxwell – he had been there so very much longer. Easily 20 years worth of time, maybe more. Not that he had any way to be sure, of course. Time moved differently in the Constant than it did back in the real world.
Maxwell let go of Wilson's hand and sat up from the grass blades, massaging his temples. Wilson hugged his knees in thought. Curiosity had him, and as a man of science it was not in his nature to resist the call of the unknown.
“Have you tried meditating? Clearing your mind, relaxing, all that.”
The shadows cast themselves deeply over Maxwell's face, hooding his eyes protectively.
Lips curled down into a grim frown, he replied, “Yes. I must inform you that one; it did not help. Two; it made things so much worse that I refuse to try it again. Ever.” Conviction filled his tone at the last word. His certainty made Wilson hesitant to make other suggestions.
Instead, he backpedaled to a memory from his childhood, previously long since buried by the passage of time.
“Look at me, Wilson.” His father demanded.
Wilson, frightened and trembling, could not look higher than his father's shoes.
Silence.
“Wilson!” His father barked.
The young boy jolted in his place at the sharp yell, heart jump-starting violently. Still, he could not look higher than his father's shoes.
“Look at me when I'm talking to you. Did you break your mother's locket?”
“Yes- yes I did, pa- father...” Nerves held him in place, otherwise he would have run. Nerves and a sense of belonging, if it could even be called that.
The sudden crack of a long, thin stick hitting the floor next to him tore a yelp out of his tiny throat.
“Look at me!”
A massive lump formed in Wilson's throat, and suddenly his vision blurred with wetness. It was only natural to cry in the face of overwhelming fear. It's only natural. He was afraid of his father, after all. Mother never switched him like father did. She was not married to corporal punishment like he was.
A feminine voice came to the boy's rescue before the switch could have at him, however.
“Leave my beautiful boy alone, Lucas! He didn't hurt anything.” His mother trilled from behind him.
“Your 'beautiful boy' broke your locket, honey. He should know better than to play with things that aren't his!”
Father's voice sounded angry. Wilson squeezed his eyes shut, tears trickling down his lightly sunburned cheeks and dripping off his chin down to the collar of his shirt.
“And what of it? It was only a locket, Lucas. I never wore it. As long as the pieces are still there, no harm was done.”
Hands grabbed him under the arms, causing him to squeak hoarsely in surprise. His mother lifted him up and cradled him close to her bosom. He clung to her and wiped his nose on her shoulder. She didn't seem to mind.
She continued, “If I ever catch you paddling my boy for something this bloody pointless again, I'll get that blasted belt of yours and give you a good slapping with it. Understand, you half-empty bottle of two-pence gin?”
Wilson couldn't see his father's face, but at the time it hadn't really mattered to him. Mother was there, and everything was alright.
“When I was a lad,” Wilson began, hoping to empathize with Maxwell using a story of his own. “My father liked to switch me. It was almost as if he... as if he wanted me to misbehave. Just so he could beat on me for it. I doubt that was the case, but I-”
he paused, collecting his thoughts. “That's how it feels, looking back at it.” he finished.
Maxwell spoke up. “Sounds like you were afraid of him? Nothing to be ashamed of, of course- it's natural to-”
“Yes, I was.” Wilson cut him off. “Very much so.”
Shifting position, he disconnected from his past once more.
“I just... I just want you to know, that- that you aren't alone,” he finished, somewhat self-conscious. “that's all.”
Maxwell sat quietly for a moment, likely thinking. Part of Wilson wished he knew what went on in that gentleman's brain. Maybe...
“I understand, Higgsbury.” he said finally, nodding.
The scientist nodded along, mind suddenly elsewhere. Maybe, indeed. Should he go through with it? It felt risky. Sure, the Constant gave virtually no shits about societal norms, including this, but the inhabitants themselves were entirely independent from the Constant when it came to their thoughts and views. Maxwell was no different. However, Maxwell also just demonstrated having a massive vulnerability, which was a curve-ball to end all curve-balls in Wilson's seemingly nonsensical quest to find reasons to forgive him for what he did. The game... well, the game had changed now.
No longer was it a dance of mortal foes, eternally swinging their weapons but careful to never hit their marks. Now, it was a delicate tiptoe, led by a new-found sympathy and fueled by the scientist's deep-seated compassion for those who suffer. That was how Wilson had remained so poor, after all; giving spare change to the poor wretches at the side of the road on his way to the market. He could not stand to see the suffering of others, which was a trait his mother had nurtured in him both by example and by gentle lecturing. What little money they had that didn't go towards his father's drink or their meals would be rationed out to the poorest of the poor in their corner of London. Sometimes, mother had even taken him to see the local mental institute, where he would perform errands for the staff and chat shyly with the patients there. Wilson was no stranger to charity.
Perhaps all Maxwell needed was a little guidance, a push in the right direction. It was wishful thinking, sure, but Wilson had always been a wishful thinker. He had also always had a gravitation toward the unknown; experiment after experiment would be performed until he got the answer he searched for. If he could leave his parents in pursuit of his passions, then he could do this as well.
Taking a deep breath to brace himself, he reached over to Maxwell's hand nearest to him and placed his own atop it.
“Listen... I would like to- uh.. like to get to know you, better...” The words tumbled out of his mouth with the grace of a legless swan having a stroke.
Maxwell pulled his hand away, shifting in position but not moving away.
“What are you insinuating?” He queried in what sounded like disgust, leaving the scientist's insides sinking with dismay.
“Well- you- you're interesting-!” Wilson sputtered in an attempt to cover for himself. “ I don't know that much about you, and- and I'd...”
He trailed off for a split second, swallowing. His mouth had suddenly become very dry.
“I'd like to.” He finished.
Maxwell relaxed his stance, though still very much cautious. The air between them had grown tense and brittle, as though a single word would shatter it into a million pieces. Wilson would have to choose his carefully, from now on.
“Would you, now...?” Maxwell stuck one foot into the ring, curious but not willing to jump in just yet. “What would you like to know?”
Many questions popped into Wilson's mind. How had Maxwell come here? Who was he before all this happened? Where had he grown up? Wilson settled on the first one.
“How... did you get here? Did you- er- make a deal, or-”
Maxwell let out a long, winded sigh. Where to begin?
“Do you want the short version, or the long one?” he repositioned himself on the grass. This was about to get unpleasant.
Wilson's face morphed in poorly-hidden surprise. Maxwell almost wanted to laugh, but he bit it back for the sake of keeping the peace between them. So if he was interpreting what just happened correctly, then this was a real life... homosexual? He'd heard plenty of things about homosexuals in the past, and though the details varied, all accounts pointed him unanimously in the direction of suppressing any and all thoughts toward men in favor of women. He hadn't had much difficulty, given that women were equally as interesting and twice as beautiful anyway. Wilson's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back into the present.
Maxwell was confused. “Pardon?”
Wilson chuckled at him. “I said, 'can I hear the short version first?'”
“Oh! Well,” Maxwell pushed a finger to the bridge of his nose, as though to readjust a nonexistent pair of spectacles. “I was a magician, believe it or not. I began my career by moving to America in search of success. I didn't do well, at all. Before I knew it, I was neck-deep in debt with no way to pay it off.”
Wilson cringed. Maxwell didn't have the heart to blame him.
Maxwell continued. “Desperation soon took over, so I joined a circus. Our wagon got stuck on a railroad track on our way to California, and well... a train hit us. I survived, as did everyone else, but on my trek through the desert I found a book. The Codex Umbra...”
Maxwell reached into his jacket and pulled out a black book. Though inanimate, its pages surged with power.
Wilson eyed the book, seemingly cautious of it. “Is it magic? Like- real magic?”
“I would assume so,” Maxwell said. “And I used it for my magic shows. It brought me out of debt, but...”
His bony frame sagged.
“But what? I get that it got you here, but what I want to know is how.” Wilson pressed. Apparently the scientist was not a patient listener. Always after the answers, nothing else. It was actually rather endearing at times, but now was not one of those times.
“I don't know how, Higgsbury.” Maxwell shot back defensively. “All I know is that one show I used it in was the last I'd ever perform.”
“I see...” Wilson murmured.
Once again, silence took over. Maxwell was hesitant, mouth open to say something, but it took him several seconds to muster the courage to say it.
“This... may sound a bit... odd, but-” Maxwell stumbled over his words, already embarrassed.
Wilson hummed inquisitively, twirling a plucked blade of grass between his slender fingers.
Maxwell swallowed. “Thank you... for asking for the shorter version of the- of the story.”
Jaw tight, he waited for a reply. The water behind Wilson was very interesting in that moment. If Maxwell had been looking at Wilson then, he would have seen the ever-so-slight smile on the man's face.
“That's not odd at all. I, uhhh... I understand, that it might not have been the most pleasant topic for you. A summary was all I needed, anyway.”
Still examining the water, Maxwell nodded his head with a sort of loftiness. Almost not paying attention, he replied, “I'm glad.”
Several minutes trickled by in the stillness of the night. Neither man moved, for it was a time for thoughts and inaction. Maxwell studied Wilson's hair, noting the knots and cowlicks that littered the eccentric black mop. In better lighting, gray hairs would have been visible. Maxwell was not sure of Wilson's age, but his best guess would have landed somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. Maybe forty, if he were to be generous. That was unlikely, however; such a young face is not easily found in people past their mid-thirties.
Maxwell himself was – God, what was he now? – at least 50, he had to assume. Time moved differently in this world, leaving him no way to tell how old he really was now. It felt like an eternity that he had been here, and in all honesty perhaps he had been. Time here didn't seem to matter. Not that he hadn't aged at all since coming here; his face had grown much rougher and sharper than it had been when he was dragged away from his performance. The performance... Charlie.
How was Charlie doing, he wondered. His brilliant assistant, Charlie, had been dragged here along with him. She hadn't... She hadn't deserved it. She was not the one who tampered with dark magic or Latin passages; hell, she hadn't even known that the shadows were real! She genuinely believed till the disastrous end that they were only projections – a special effect, and nothing more. Charlie had been an innocent bystander in this whole ordeal, and yet...
Maxwell swallowed dryly.
Them. They had not only gotten her, oh no; that alone hadn't been enough for Them. They changed her; got inside of her and became part of her. How or why They had done it was not known. Maxwell did not yet care to know. The Charlie he had known was no more. Shadows and Darkness controlled her, now. Like a puppet, led by strings but having no – or, in this case, little – life of its own. Now she was a monster, though Maxwell preferred to believe that it was not her that was the monster, but rather, it was the monster that was inside of her.
The pain that rolled over Maxwell was immense. Why her? Him – yes, that had been understandable. But Charlie, too? All she'd done was be there! And she had always been so sweet... There had been many, many instances of waking up to the concerned young woman, usually asking him in that innocent way why he'd fallen asleep in his office. Maxwell couldn't help but get the feeling that she had been quietly in love with him, too shy and professional to be open about it and yet too incessantly kind and innocent to be cold to him. It wouldn't surprise him; she was always a reserved woman, but she never let it prevent her from being kind. Such a painful thought to have; she'd trusted him so completely and utterly, and now it was he who was ultimately responsible for her twisted fate. Such was the fortune of William Carter. What a failure.
The sound of water breaking pulled Maxwell out of his trance. A pile of clothing – red vest, white shirt, black pants, and a pair of dirty shoes – lay where Wilson had been before. The owner of said clothes could be seen wading forward into the lake, about waist-deep. The sight of bare skin sent Maxwell's arms up to his reddening face.
“W- Higgsbury! At the very least give me a warning-!”
A laugh could be heard. “I tried! But you were in lala land so I just went ahead and got undressed.”
Maxwell, arms still covering his face, huffed to himself in embarrassment. He hadn't even noticed the scientist undressing himself. He still should have at least gone behind him to do so.
Wilson turned around and giggled. “What seems to be the problem over there?”
“You- you aren't... decent!” Maxwell shouted from behind his arm fortress. It was amusing, to say the least.
“Does it really even matter anymore? There is no society here. We don't have to care.” Wilson pointed out. “Wes walks around shirtless all the time back at camp, and nobody ever gives him shit for it.”
Granted, that was probably because Wes is... Wes. Wilson was fairly certain that the mime didn't go into that profession by choice.
Maxwell was not relenting.
“You could at least go further in, Higgsbury!”
“And you could always turn around.” He shot back. Maxwell grunted.
Wilson waded continuously into the deeper part of the pond. The water was oddly warm, but not unpleasantly so; surprising given the Constant's unending lack of hospitality. The surface glittered around him in time with the lapping reverberations of the ripples he had originally created by entering the water. The moon glowed over them both and bathed them in gentle blueish light. A shuffling sound from the shore grabbed Wilson's attention, and he glanced over to find Maxwell standing up and unbuttoning his suit jacket.
Puzzled, Wilson tilted his head to an angle. “Maxwell?”
“Hm?” Down went the jacket, pouring onto itself in a pile on the grass. Wilson bit his lip.
“What are you...?”
“I'm joining you,” Maxwell confirmed, pulling his red – it was dark and muted in the moonlight – tie out of the shirt collar and tossing that aside as well. “Care for a dance?”
A... dance? Tingles of excitement spread outwards from his chest in a great burst. Despite the still-civilized part of him screaming to look away, Wilson continued to watch Maxwell undress. Hopefully, it wouldn't make him uncomfortable, because in that moment Wilson wasn't sure if he would be able to peel his eyes away even if asked. Heat flushed over his face like the sunburns he used to get as a child. He was not one to lust; not for contact, at least. But that did not mute his ability – nor his drive – to admire the human body. Well... the male human body. That was one reason he never got married like his mother had wanted him to. Women just never held the same appeal. Taboo, yes; but he'd never been able to successfully change it. After one traumatic event involving a woman having too many hands to grab with and not enough ears to listen, he'd had enough. Ironic how he'd been unable to recall that particular memory when he was conversing with Maxwell about trauma.
A snapping sound brought him back to reality. Maxwell had stripped down to his underclothing minus the top. Pale, thin, bony – about what he had expected. Not that he minded; he wasn't all that much better. The only real difference was his build and the presence of hair on his chest which he had never cared about enough to shave off. Maxwell snapped his fingers again.
“Are you listening, Higgsbury?” the magician frowned impatiently.
Wilson lifted his legs off the bottom of the pond and allowed himself to slide further down into the water. “Yes- I- um... I think I'd like to dance.”
Maxwell's annoyed frown flipped into a pleased half-smile. Wilson's heart pounded against the bars of its cage in anticipation. He watched his companion step into the water with a gentleman's grace.
Truth be told, Wilson never learned how to dance. Attempts at learning usually ended with an irritated instructor sending him home without plans to teach him further. Eventually, mother had given up trying. She merely gave him a brief written tutorial and told him to look at it when he wanted to. Unfortunately, he could not recall a single detail from that note; it had remained untouched in his bedside cupboard for ages. At least he'd kept it, he figured. Mother would have been pleased at that.
Close-up, Maxwell was a tall individual. Wilson could not remember the last time he had met someone who could tower over everyone the way Max did. The water surged outward to make way for the magician. Standing back up, Wilson pushed his way through the liquid barrier to meet him halfway. Their bodies collided and Maxwell wasted no time wrapping an arm around his partner's waist. Wilson gasped at the sudden contact – why there? – and pulled them both backwards into the deeper waters.
“Uhhhh... I- I don't really know how... how to dance.” Wilson finally admitted. The moon shone brightly behind Maxwell's shoulders, almost high enough to be a halo.
Maxwell snorted, an amused smirk creeping over his face. “Of course, you don't know how to dance. I didn't expect you to be the type, honestly. I myself struggle with the foot movements, believe it or not.”
Allowing himself a chuckle, the scientist leaned forward and planted his forehead squarely on Maxwell's clavicle, which vibrated with laughter at the eccentric display.
“W- what are you doing, you goofy man?” Max laughed. So pleasant, this side of Maxwell. Wilson hoped to uncover more before night's end.
“Bonding,” he replied jokingly. Really, he had no answer to the question that wasn't a joke in nature; why not make his weirdness entertaining?
An eruption of giggles immediately informed him that he'd succeeded. Wilson's mouth pulled itself into a grin of its own accord. He lifted his head up to look at Maxwell's face; a genuine, honest-to-god smile adorned it, complete with a gleeful shine in each eye. Maxwell... had Maxwell never smiled before? A realization hit him. Maxwell had never smiled before! Not out of enjoyment. A combination of sorrow and excitement accompanied his revelation, and it clawed at the inside of his heart like thorns.
Maxwell cleared his throat. “I suppose it doesn't really matter whether we dance correctly or not. To hell with it, then?”
A moment passed before Wilson realized what Maxwell was asking. No rules or routines... just freestyle? A bounce graced his step. He nodded in agreement.
“To hell with it. Let's just have fun tonight.”
Maxwell smiled down at his odd, exceptionally charming partner. “Indeed.”
The best thing about dancing halfway underwater, at least for Maxwell, was the slow loftiness of it. Water was far too dense to make rapid and jerky movements in, and any misstep made by either of them still felt graceful because of it. Wilson was probably very, very grateful for that, guessing from the expressions the scientist kept pulling coupled with sudden tightening of the grip he had on Maxwell's shoulder. He found it amusing – almost cute – that such a smart and educated man would flounder like a fish on shore when taken out of his area of expertise. Truly a shining example of how an idiot to one man could be a genius to another.
Without a word of warning, air became water and Maxwell was forced to hold in what little breath his worn old lungs had. Wilson had pulled them both under, and behind the mess of flowing black hair and bubbles was a mischievous smile. Maxwell's lungs cried out for air and his body – without his command – pushed upwards to the surface. The starry reflections that covered it were shattered by the splash.
Wilson broke the surface after him, watching him sputter while still wearing that playful smirk.
“I guess I should have warned you, huh?”
Maxwell shot him a stern look. The scientist's hair draped down over his face like curtains, much longer than one would realize just by looking at it when it's dry.
Panting, he replied, “Yes, that... that would have... have been wiser... What the devil were... were you planning, anyway?”
Wilson shook his head like a dog would, sending water droplets every which way and disturbing the reflections that had just started to reform. The urge to sigh audibly was strong, though Maxwell fought it off. Everything was so pretty in the moonlight – even annoying scientists.
Wilson, eyes glinting, answered, “I thought we could try dancing under the water.”
“I'm quite certain that's called swimming, dear Higgsbury.”
Laughter, good-natured and warm, filled the night air. “Wrong; it's called, swimming together!”
Heat glowed on Maxwell's cheeks and above his brow. Blood roared in his ears – a decision had been made, and once the offer was given there was no going back.
“You know, I think... I think there are many things we could do together,” he outstretched his hand to the other man. “Would you like to experience them with me?”
Wilson, with no hesitation at all, reached out and grabbed it. Glossy stars dripped from the black sky that was Wilson's drenched hair.
“It would be my pleasure.”
. . . . .
The moon shined over the pond and everything in it, its reflection bright and beautiful among the stars. Trees rustled in the night breeze. The night of the dancer was peacefully quiet, standing as a testament to the finding of beauty in strange places.