Desire came crashing down on him, overwhelming and unprepared.

  Women had touched him there before. He could handle it with composure, like a dance rehearsed a thousand times. He knew where to place his hands, what to say, how to appear the gentle and considerate lover.

  But Vance Heaton had never once imagined he might develop an interest in a male body.

  Not until this absurd, nearly shameful dream did he realize a sordid beast lurked within him. It filled him with an unprecedented restlessness.

  No, that wasn't right. He must have just been abstaining too long. There was no way he was actually attracted to men.

  He clung to that last shred of hope.

  The boy before him had gradually matured into a young man, having shot up in height. Elian was lean, with defined lines, his skin slightly uneven in tone from training under the sun.

  Vance drew in a sharp breath and looked away, flustered.

  If...

  If I only feel this novel sensation toward him and if he is just an exception, then it doesn't mean I actually like men, right?

  He thought this to himself, even as he felt ashamed of such rationalizing. His body, meanwhile, refused to calm down.

  "It's okay. It's okay," the Elian in his dream murmured, stroking his hair. "This is your dream, isn't it? No one has to know."

  It was the perfect excuse to indulge without restraint. Guilt-ridden, he surrendered.

  The figure in his dream seduced him, straddling the wide hospital bed and pulling off his athletic shorts. Freed, it sprang forth.

  He looked over, still inexperienced, his hand ghosting over that dizzying part of himself.

  "Don't... don't touch yourself... in front of me."

  He sounded almost desperate as he spoke, but the painful swelling below gave him away."

  "Don't you want me?"

  When Vance didn't answer, he lowered his head and kissed him, his canine teeth catching Vance's lip.

  "Ah—" Vance gasped, earning a triumphant, wicked grin from Elian.

  When he smiled like that, Vance could see the delicate pink of his tongue behind his teeth.

  The always-proud young master could no longer feign composure. He gripped the back of the other's head, pulling him close, kissing him with reckless abandon—tongue and lips tangled, messy and wet.

  They shared a slick, feverish kiss as a thick sheen of pre-cum leaked between them, lubricating their tips where they pressed together.

  The one in his dream touched him clumsily, tentatively. It soon made Vance impatient. Irritated, he grabbed both of them with one hand and began to stroke.

  Pleasure surged with each drag, washing over him like waves, crashing against his nerves until his scalp tingled.

  The other lifted his head, exposing the long column of his throat.

  "Slow— slower... I'm about to—"

  His eyes were shut, brow slightly creased as he panted.

  Vance stared, dazed, at the intoxicating sight.

  He wanted to memorize the fine lines between Elian's brows, catalogue the moans he couldn't suppress, feel the sweat drip from that flaxen hair.

  Soon, he had no more attention to spare. The peak was approaching, the urge to come seizing him, his legs going rigid.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Ecstasy swallowed him whole. He spilled, thick and white, wave after wave.

  He woke with a start, gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs, accompanied by the faint, steady beep of machines.

  The young master blinked. The hospital ceiling was as monotonous as ever. Silver moonlight filtered through the curtains.

  The smell of disinfectant mingled with the unpleasant odor of semen. When he shifted his legs slightly, he could feel the damp coldness soaking through his hospital gown in one particular spot.

  Damn it. This was mortifying.

  He didn't need to look. He knew that viscous fluid was everywhere.

  Relying on his crutch, Vance hobbled step by difficult step toward the bathroom.

  Just as he was about to reach the door, his foot slipped. He braced himself for the fall—

  A figure caught him, steadying him.

  "Let go. I can do it myself." Vance's voice was laced with irritation.

  What he truly couldn't bear was for a nurse to see him like this.

  "Are you sure?"

  An unexpected voice reached his ears, threaded with concern.

  Vance turned, stunned, to face the person before him.

  He turned too sharply. The other lost his balance, and they both tumbled to the floor, half-falling, half-sitting, tangled together.

  "Careful—!" Elian yelled.

  They were sprawled in a bizarre configuration. Elian, facing him, had used his entire body as a cushion. Vance, propped up on strong arms, hovered over him in something almost resembling an embrace.

  For a long moment, neither spoke...

  Vance had not forgotten the large, damp, white stain on his hospital gown.

  He swore, if he had foreseen this, he would have strangled himself with his IV line just moments ago.

  "Get off me! Now!" His voice was frantic.

  "You're the one pinning me down! I can't move if you don't!"

  Elian shot back without backing down.

  "My leg is broken! How am I supposed to get up?"

  "Fair point..."

  "And what are you doing in my room in the middle of the night? Get out!" Vance shouted, as if the person he had just been dreaming about with such longing wasn't standing right before him.

  "I just saved you, young master!"

  "Don't call me that!"

  "Fine, fine, fine." Elian struggled to get up. As he moved, his knee brushed against something damp.

  He was wearing shorts. The cold, unmistakable sensation hit him, and belatedly, an unusual odor reached his nose.

  What the hell was that?

  Elian's mind raced with horrified realization.

  Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't good.

  And he was male too. He knew that smell. But how? There was no way.

  Vance knew that Elian knew. And Elian knew that Vance knew that he knew.

  Regardless, they both silently agreed to pretend it never happened. They disentangled themselves from the floor with difficulty.

  Vance went into the bathroom. Elian handed him a clean hospital gown through the door. Neither spoke.

  Elian understood the young master's fierce pride. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass him further.

  So, the best course of action was to play dumb and absolutely never mention what had just transpired.

  Ahem. It was Vance who broke the silence.

  "So. Where have you disappeared to all this time?"

  He was back in bed now. The room wasn't fully lit, but there was enough light to see those sapphire eyes.

  "I went to a summer program. My parents sent me out of state."

  "Then why didn't you even—" He paused. "...say something?"

  "I thought you hated me being here?" Elian said hesitantly.

  The young master closed his mouth and looked away.

  "I came straight to the hospital as soon as I got off the plane." Elian smiled.

  Well. That was... forgivable. Vance thought.

  "Come here."

  The young master gestured for him to sit on the edge of the bed.

  Elian was surprised. Vance had never asked him to come closer before.

  Then, suddenly, Vance hugged him.

  It was like... the friendly embrace between brothers?

  "I thought something had happened to you," Vance murmured near his ear.

  Elian couldn't see his expression, only felt his breath—hot against his neck, almost humid enough to condense into mist.

  "Sorry to disappoint. Still very much alive?" Elian ventured, and then laughed at his own joke.

  "Try disappearing like that again and see what happens." Vance released him, his face already smoothed back into placid composure, as if the embrace had never happened.

  The next day, the nurse was overjoyed to see the boy had returned.

  And just like that, Young Master Heaton was back to being easy to care for. At least he wasn't throwing tantrums anymore.

  The sunlight was perfect, streaming through the hospital windows. A breeze carried the scent of flowers from outside, fresh and lively.

  "There's a concert in the hospital garden today. Would you two like to go?" she asked softly.

  "No," the young master replied.

  Well. Except for certain moments. Still as insufferably cold as ever. The nurse sighed internally.

  "What kind of concert? I'd like to go," the boy beside him asked.

  "Fine. We'll go," the young master immediately amended.

  "Great!" Elian beamed, already pushing Vance's wheelchair toward the door.

  What just happened? The nurse stared at the empty room, bewildered. Was that the fastest change of heart in history?

  A gentle breeze swept through the rooftop garden. Sunlight, filtered through the white awning, softened into warm, muted gold. Roses bloomed in vivid splendor, interwoven with clusters of silver-white hyacinths, forming a picturesque scene.

  At the garden's center stood a glossy black grand piano, surrounded by simple yet elegant seating. Several patients and their families were already seated. The atmosphere was unexpectedly serene and dignified.

  "Oh, it's a piano concert..." Elian murmured, his tone carrying a hint of disappointment.

  "What did you think it was?" Vance turned his gaze toward him.

  "I thought there might be singers. Electric guitars..."

  "Idiot. This is a hospital. Playing electric guitars here would give the elderly patients heart attacks."

  "...Yeah, you're right." Elian laughed.

  The pianist, dressed in formal tails, sat quietly at the bench. His fingertips descended gently.

  As the first note sounded, the air seemed to ripple as if touched by soft water waves.

  The melody unfolded like a landscape gradually revealing itself—from the low, somber bass to the playful leap of treble notes. Each tone felt like morning light threading through forest canopies, as though the very air had been tinted with color.

  "What's he playing?" Elian whispered.

  He thought Vance hadn't heard. But after a moment, the reply came, unhurried:

  "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair."

  "Never heard of it."

  "It's Debussy. 'The Girl with the Flaxen Hair' is regarded as a symbol of innocence and beauty." Vance explained, with unusual patience.

  "I've heard of Debussy, at least." Elian rested his hand against his lips, thoughtful. "This piece is really beautiful."

  Its melody was gentle, its rhythm unhurried—like walking in the pale light of early morning, filled with a tranquil sweetness and poetic solitude.

  "You have flaxen hair, too," Vance said quietly.

  "Yeah, yeah. But I'm not a 'girl,'" Elian replied, not turning to look at him, his focus still on the music.

  Vance said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head slightly, his thoughts unknown.

  His blue eyes drifted like pale seawater filtering through coral reefs, quietly shifting.

  His gaze landed, unbidden, on the young man beside him.

  As they bathed in the purity of the piano piece, Vance studied that face—still bearing traces of youthful softness, its contours gentle.

  Yet what surfaced in his mind was not this, but the Elian from his dream.

  The one with flushed cheeks, a teasing whisper, the seducer.

  But the real Elian was not like that. He teased Vance occasionally, yes, but never to the point of impropriety.

  Which only proved it had been a fantasy—a wistful dream spun from his own vulnerability in the lonely depths of night.

  Realizing this, he looked away, flustered. His gaze settled on a cluster of roses on the far side of the piano.

  He pretended nothing had happened.