Beacon in the Storm

It was just past the solstice, which meant that the sun was setting far sooner than usual. Even in the dead of winter, however, it never grew very cold in town, the temperature remaining balmy and hospitable even as the orange sphere lumbered past the horizon. Joggers and pet walkers lingered on the sidewalks in scattered packs, making good use of the welcoming southern evening. Yet, nature often sees fit to be contrary, and a brisk clip rolled through, a blanket of clouds atop it, as though the weather itself took umbrage with people finding any joy in a dead season. The bare branches on the trees that lined the street trembled. Dusty front porch swings hung on rusted chain swayed. Despite the warmth, a stale desolation filled the air.

Beyond one neglected porch, past the front door, mirages glistened in suspension over the low hum and pop of an old oil heater, nestled in the hall beyond the entryway. Around the corner, in the parlor, a young man whose sharp-featured face did not suggest that he was twenty-five sank back into a battered sofa, curling to his side to avoid crushing the smooth, sinuous wings that sprouted from his back. He picked at the black polish on his fingertips, glancing over them at the large pile of blankets that occupied the cushion beside him.

Sighing deeply, he reached out, and jostled the mound.

"Hey," he whispered to the upholstered heap. Part of him did not anticipate a reply. "You still breathing in there?"

The small mountain grumbled and stirred. Like a shark fin from out of the water, one ridged and blue-spined reptilian frill poked out from underneath a patchwork quilt, followed by another. The pair fanned languidly on either side of a more human face that appeared as the crimped hem of the quilt slid down, flush below mussed dark bangs that were matted flat over a pair of eyes.

Somewhere beneath the mess, the hidden eyes blinked.

"G'night," said a half-muffled voice only after a bewildered pause, before the figure flopped back down, hidden again. A thick, spiny tail flicked from beneath the pile.

The young man, Farad, laughed softly.

Whether it was chilly or not, the season was a universally difficult time for lizardfolk like his boyfriend. Their blood ran colder than most, and the nippy weather made them stiff and lethargic. It was not surprising to see their kind take extended vacations, or call in sick to school or work in the invernal months. Most stayed home, where they could curl up, warm in a state of half-hibernation. Communities where their populations were concentrated saw a boom in food deliveries during such periods.

The situation was less than favourable, but less favourably still, this phenomenon seemed to take a particularly heavy toll on Farad's lover. As the days grew brief, and the sunlight faded, L.P., the youth hidden beneath the blanket, wilted, rapidly as a houseplant neglected water. He was prone to irritation, and at times, a radiant sense of hopelessness. Farad felt every shift as sharply as he did his own emotions. That was a psy-vampire's way, after all.

It made Farad's heart ache to see his lover like this, year in, year out. Still, for all his impulses, he knew by now that there was little within his power to be done. He could offer comfort, offer help, but no matter what he did, some base part of L's brain would refuse it. All he could do was to sit beside the other, body to body to share his heat, and keep vigil until the moment passed.

A low breath rolled from the pit of Farad's throat. Some tiny, selfish fragment of himself groused, bemoaning the burden. Contrarily, for him, winter was the perfect season. The chill was invigorating, and with the sun so low, so scarce, he could venture outside without the worry of broiling his ivory skin. Furthermore, it was the weekend, a time when all the clubs downtown would be packed, the evening streets ringing with throngs of revelers, all ripe for the picking. Two tickets to an evening show burned an angry hole in his pocket… It was clear by now that they were going to go unused.

Just the thought of missing out on so much left Farad himself feeling as though he was beneath an avalanche. The crowds were his element, their swirling energy his sustenance. Yet, he remained here, between four solid walls, with only one other beside him, who lacked the reserves to serve as even the poorest of meals… had Farad the heart to feed from him in the first place.

Yet somehow, there was nothing in this world that he would have traded these moments for.

Life was a storm, his own perhaps more so than others (in the way that most vampires' were), and through the greyness, L.P. was a rare beacon. Even if a fog fell over that light, Farad knew the beam would still be there, piercing through, shining straight unto his heart. No treasure, no threat, no mountain or valley or lure of neon would stop him from guarding that cherished light, that lantern fire.

L put up with so much from him, after all. It was the least he could do in return.

Even if he could not wish the fog away, he could wrap his hands around the tiny flame, and give his breath to sustain it. He could outwait L's storm, until the sun broke through again, restoring warmth and life to the barren field.

Love alone could not replace that sun, but if it could come even close, then he would give all that he had, and he would give it freely.

Because, after all, L would do the same for him. That was just the way love was.

He pulled up the edge of the quilt and sidled closer to the scaled one beneath, gentle smile tugging at his cheeks. Body to body, his wings folded softly around, enveloping them both.

A cold hand found his. Farad squeezed tight.

Outside, light rays poked through the clouds.