The air is chilly out here. I can't stop thinking about how nice it would be to have an instant fire, but without you here, I'm stuck scraping rocks and sticks together in nothing more than a futile attempt to create some heat, some friction, some spark. But I never have any luck when it comes to fire, and I never have, which in my position as a wanderer leaves me spending cold nights like this one underneath a thin blanket, trying to keep some heat clinging to my core. I haven't been killed yet, which I'm thankful for. The cold is feeble, an annoying predator.

Now I'm angry, not only at my inability to start a goddamned fire, which I signal by throwing my utensils down into the mud, but also that I'm here all alone, and you're with him. He's my brother, you slut. God knows what you two are doing, but I have a pretty good idea; I know he's touching you in all the ways that I've dreamt of.

Shit. And now I'm jealous. You were always mine. He didn't even want you at first, you idiot. He only took you to spurn me. I wish you knew how many times he called you a slut and a whore and a dumb bitch. He never looks at you the way I do. You're beautiful. You're perfect. But you're a whore.

I give up, lying down against the stone slab that seems to be the only place free of mud. It's cold too. Colder than the air, but I think of you, and good god, that warms me up. In more than just one way, too. My mind's wandering, and I'm tangling my fingers through those gentle curls of yours, kissing your cheek and urging your lips to mine, and I'm not even having to coax you mentally. You lean into my hand like a kitten, purring as you mutter my name against my lips like the gentle kiss I finally pressed to you was somewhere other than your lips, and you cradle my jaw in your small, clammy hand.

You're nervous, but you're experienced, simply tingling at the thought of being with me.

Shit.

I laugh to myself now, kind of embarrassed now that I'm aware of my surroundings, my fantasy ruptured by the call of an owl. I'm hard, throbbing, leaking, just that turned on by a kiss.

As I'm undoing my pants, I try to project my thoughts to you, to share what passion there is between us, but you're too far away. Regardless, this fantasy is all too real. It's resumed; you're kissing down my chest, lips soft, warm, and wet against my skin as you trace your tongue against me amidst each kiss. I smirk to myself, unable to keep from touching myself both in reality and in my head any longer. You giggle, scolding me for not allowing you to do the honors, so I let you, and you're gentle, your fingers almost ticking me—in a good way; god, it feels amazing—and pumping with a teasing nature.

I press you down, but you're already kissing the head of my cock, swirling your tongue around it, and still pumping. I moan, arching my hips into you until you take me deeper.

"Illusien," I purr, fingers knotted through the hair at the base of your skull. My eyes are closed tightly; I'm embarrassed—you don't know that I'm a virgin, and I'm not about to tell you.

I'm so close now, but you pull off, taking your hand back. I frown, but then you kiss me, Illu, and I stop all internal complaints. You deepen it quickly, your tongue slipping and sliding over and underneath mine.

"I want you," you moan, fixing my hands on your waist. I lift you up, smiling, wanting you—needing you more than air. I position myself, slipping inside of you. You're so tight, perfect, beautiful, and you're moving on me in all the right ways.

"God, Illu, I can't take much more…." I thrust my hips up into you, and I come, but instead of inside you, it settles on my stomach, sticky, goopy, a reminder in yet another way that you're not here.

I miss you, Illu. I fucking love you.

Your eyes, skin, hair. Your smell.

I pant, tucking myself back in, and I roll over, face red, and I promise myself it's just the cold. I pretend I'm not crying, and I go to sleep.

I dream of you.

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