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They moved into the new apartment together and Martin felt like This Was It. They got a king-sized bed and made up the guest room for Douglas’ daughters, and Martin learned how to cook for two.
That Halloween, after the party, they went to bed together and had sex in it and surely that meant that the dream wouldn’t happen.
The next morning, Martin buttoned his shirt all the way – despite Douglas calling him an accountant – because the fang marks were back.
Martin was twitchy and tired as always on the Day of the Dead. That evening, they walked to the Spanish Quarter to watch the parade, and he felt clingly to Douglas all day.
“What’s the matter?” Douglas said.
“Nothing,” Martin said. “I just love how you feel.”
And yet, he must have been dropping Douglas’ hand, because he kept having to take it up again. At dusk, they reached the memorial bowers. Large, living artworks in lattices, flowers, cornucopia – beautiful structures to celebrate the dead.
Martin stopped short. In a circle of candlelight, a man was dancing, the long feathers whipping around him as he spun and flipped. The music drummed, pulsing through the ground in Martin’s feet. The two punctures in his neck burned as points of pain. He saw, then, that the memorial arc – above a wall of chrysanthemum skulls – was a great, leather-wrought snake with the face of a demon. Martin’s chest grew tight.
"Do you want to dance?” Martin said to Douglas.
Douglas looked down at him in surprise. “What? No. Martin, I’m sure they appreciate your enthusiasm, but we’re the spectators, not the participants.”
Martin blushed, knowing he was being stupid and Douglas would tease him, and he’d tried so hard to be normal for Douglas.
“I just – I think I may dance. Just a little.”
“Martin –”
He couldn’t explain why he needed to move his body like the plumed man was doing. Even if it made Douglas wander off in embarrassment. Martin had to shake this awful tightness round his chest.
He danced.
Martin lost sight of Douglas’ amused, irritated smile in the crowd. His body moved of its own accord, flopping to the music, as the dancer gave him wide berth and the tightness in his chest made breathing difficult, the twin points of pain seemed to sink deeper, to pull life from the very pit of his being.
Dark spots begin to swim into Martin’s field of vision even as his legs lost their strength. The world was becoming a darker place. He saw water, a dark lake, could feel the coldness rising up his jeans, and knew an intelligence was waiting for him beneath the surface. And that if he swam out, he would not be the first one to have gone.
And the next thing he knew, he was in a taxi.
Douglas’ thigh was under his head.
“What was all that?” Douglas said.
“Hrmmf,” Martin said, swimming back down into the dream.
Because in the dream, he was wrapped in tight, sinewy warmth. He remembered now when the dreams began – about five years ago, his first trip on that rubbish job to the Gulf Coast, transporting artifacts back to their rightful owners. Ever Day of the Dead hence, he woke warm and comforted, albeit tired, from a presence that needed him, and loved him, and who would never leave him.
“Are you okay?” Douglas said.
“A bit,” Martin said. “I’ll be better tomorrow. I just … need to stop fighting it.”