In the winter warmth,
and the summer freeze,
he dances merrily
through the breeze.

When the autumn is nigh,
and the spring is gone,
he falls in love
in a summer storm.

He has pale blue eyes,
pale rosebud lips,
and his pale skin's soft
beneath his finger tips.

From his pale, dark chest,
his hammer heart is torn,
and he flees with it as he sleeps,
one pale, dark morn.

Ashen lashes dance,
'til the tears run out,
and a frozen kiss is pressed
to a warm, dry mouth.

He wakes when the sharp, dark hands
of the clock touch nine,
and the bed's so cold,
tears frozen dry.

And he waits 'til the sun
falls out of the sky,
'til the night returns
and the moon is white,
there's a ghost of a boy,
so broken and bright.

He covers his head
to shield from the pain,
but when he wakes in the morn,
the pain's back again.

And he waits
waits
waits
waits
as the seasons change and die,
but the memory stays,
of a beautiful boy,
and he's there,
but he's not,
and his golden eyes fade,
to a dark rusted colour,
like the promises made.

He misses the taste
of his bitter-sweet kiss,
still thinks he can feel
soft hair-tugging fists,
and he waits
waits
waits
waits some more,
and as he watches the trees,
he feels broken and torn.

And when the snowflakes shiver
and dance through the air,
he swears it's his song
in the snow he can hear,
and just when he decides
he can take it no more
and climbs to his feet,
there's a rap at the door.

When he slides the clasp free,
his breath catches hard,
there stands a boy naked
in the icy, cold yard.

Brittle leaf debris shudders
in the chestnut of his hair,
and the other boy
blinks
pinches his arms
shakes,
can't believe that he's there.

He shivers
shivers
shivers
'til he's warm from his touch,
he's silent, eyes filling,
he's missed him so much.

They cry silent tears,
'til the night turns to day,
something snaps like a twig,
and there's so much to say.

The light's back in his eyes,
and the anger, it fades,
and he kisses his mouth,
beneath the tree shades.

And when summer returns,
he's long back in love,
wakes to the face
he's spent hours
days
months
years
dreaming of,
he makes the boy swear
that he'll vanish no more,
and the boy bites his lip,
'til sweet, red blood is drawn.
Like copper, like iron,
like their love in strength,
and he wants to
wants to
wants to
say yes
yes
yes,
to a promise he knows
he's not sure can be kept.

Their bodies entwine,
and their shadows form one,
this time is the first,
and they cry once its done.

A connection of body,
of heart and of mind,
he sees tiny moons fall
in the bright of his eyes.

There's blue and there's gold—
vivid colour—
not black and not white,
and they drift wrapped together,
in the life of the night.

When the cool, morning air,
stings shock on their skin,
eyes flutter awake,
and a new life begins.

Chapter 1:

Winter.

There's a flicker, almost like a quick, sparking light in the bare, cold trees and Blaine Anderson stops, squints, bends to find if his eyes or the light or the cold of the season is playing tricks. He watches, watches, watches for a second, a minute, an hour and there it is again. It's fast, like an animal, like a gazelle in the distance, but it's the wrong shape entirely. There's a shadow, a glittering flicker in the far away forest behind the Anderson house and Blaine runs, runs, walks to the door, hesitates, then pulls it open in one slick movement.

It's dark and dull and the sky's blue-grey and his eyes widen, search, seek, yearn to see the shape again, but it's gone. It's cold, so cold, and his teeth chatter until he's forced to close the door, safe, shutting out the wind and the sleet and the mystery. Blaine stays in the lonely window, in the lonely house, watching, waiting, wanting, but suddenly, he doesn't feel so alone.

Spring.

Spring passes. New lives begin. Bare feet dance through the bright, new blades, flowers of pink and yellow sunshine rest in rich, brown locks. Golden eyes strain, but do not see.

Summer.

He hears the song. It's pretty, like a bird's, but there is no lark perched in the height of the tree. Blaine listens, closes his eyes, waits for the melody to drift again, but he doesn't hear it for the remainder of the day.

It comes like a dream, one midsummer's night, when the rain starts to fall and the smell outside is Blaine's favourite smell. It's fresh and green and the sky feels free and he hears the song again, the pitter-patter of the falling rain like a rhythmic, drumming instrument. It's closer now than it was before and Blaine goes to the centre of the garden, where the old swing-set creaks and shimmies in the soft, warm breeze. The voice is high and beautiful and the flicker returns in the trees. It's slower now and when Blaine moves forward, he sees blue eyes. They're intense, wide and watching and his heart beat races like a rollercoaster on a downwards trip.

"Please," Blaine begs in a whisper. "Please, come out."

The eyes flash and they're dangerous, but Blaine cannot move a muscle. They pierce him like knives, but he stays and he waits. He feels like he has been waiting his entire life for this precise, frightening, thrilling moment. The song continues. It's slow at first and the eyes don't budge, but there's a lilt in his voice, a quiver, or a shake and Blaine knows there's fear on both sides of the trees.

"Your voice," Blaine says. "It's wonderful, like a calming lullaby, but it's sad. So sad." He pauses, waits for a response which never comes. "Why are you so sad, beautiful boy?"

The word 'boy' slips out. He cannot pinpoint just what it is that tells him that this is a boy, but he knows. Perhaps it is the way those eyes touch his heart, even in the shade of the Lincoln green leaves.

The song slows and halts and the leaves rustle. Blaine lowers his eyes and sees the pale, bare foot. He holds his breath and waits, but the movement is stilled.

"No," Blaine gasps out. "Please, come out. There's no one but me."

Seconds go by with no other moves and then when the clock in the house strikes 6 on the dot, the leaves shake and quiver and a pale body slips from behind the concealment. It's a boy, Blaine knows, because the pale body is devoid of a morsel of clothing. He's shivering, even in the warm, summer rain and his pale eyes are wide and filled with the fear of a deer in the headlights.

"You're cold," Blaine observes.

The boy's eyes blink once. Blaine stares for a while, his cheeks tinting pink and the rain starts to fall harder, the pitter-patter more of a thumping beat now. He shifts his feet and reaches out. He takes the boy's hand and it's cold, icy.

"Come inside and warm up," Blaine tells him. And he feels he must stress, "I'm all alone."

The boy follows Blaine, their hands clasped tightly and they go inside. Blaine closes the door, their hands still entwined and the ticking of the clock is the only sound now. He turns to the boy and sees he's still shaking and the colour of his eyes are clouded by the wet, building, salt water.

"Tell me your name," Blaine says, stepping closer.

The rose-pink lips part and somehow, his breath is visible, smokey. "Kurt," the boy says in a hushed tone, like it's a secret. "Kurt." He blinks twice. "I'm Kurt. And you." His lips tilt into a small and breath-stealing smile. "You are lovely."

"Blaine," he tells him. "I'm Blaine."

The boy shakes his head and lifts a pale finger. He presses it to Blaine's lips. It's cold and soft and makes him shiver visibly.

"Lovely," is all the boy says, before closing his eyes and humming his song once again.

Cool, shaking fingers are locked to warm, sweating ones and the clock is still ticking. Blaine leads the boy up the winding staircase and he's dizzy, delirious. The boy feels the cold tiles of the bathroom on the bottoms of his feet and he shudders so powerfully that he has to sit down. Blaine holds him steady, giving him a smile that appears steady, but is quivering and nervous.

The boy watches, humming no more, as Blaine fiddles with the knob on the shower wall. The water strikes the tiles with a bubbling slap and soon the room is filling with steam, hot and heavy and close to too much. Blaine rolls his sleeves up his arms, reaches out with his free hand and tests the waters. He turns, smiles, tugs gently on Kurt's hand in his own.

"A shower will warm you up," he explains, like Kurt doesn't speak English.

Kurt nods, takes the few steps forward and then drops to a seated position in the cubicle of the shower. Blaine watches curiously and they let go, hands dropping. He leaves a berry coloured towel on the rack near the shower and turns to exit, to give the boy some privacy.

"No!"

He turns back, sees the boy's eyes, wide and pleading.

"Stay," he says, softly.

Blaine hesitates, then moves to sit on the edge of the bath tub. The boy's long legs are on the tiles, knees over the ridge of the coral pink shower floor. He sits back and hisses as the steaming water hits his skin, turning the pale, pale white to a strawberries-and-cream pink. His eyes are closed, head flung back, hair darker as it sticks to his head. He grabs the shampoo bottle and pops the lid with a snap and then presses a blob into the centre of his wet palm. It's blue, the shampoo, and he studies it through mostly-lidded eyes, before reaching up high and massaging it carelessly into his hair.

This lasts for a few seconds, before the boy leans back again and allows the water to rinse it out, then he's bending forward, groaning, grabbing for the towel. He presses it to his face, body shaking still and breathes there for a while. Blaine does not move an inch, he stays, sits, watches, wonders if he should look away. He keeps his attention on the boy's feet. They're dirty underneath, grass-stained and tiny pieces of grit are stuck in the creases.

The boy, Kurt, sits back again and lets the water fall on him, like a hot torrent, or a waterfall of heat and he can't remember the last time he washed in hot water. His mind is filled with images of the cool lake and how he'd bathed there, daydreams of mermaids and knights on pearl-white horses arriving to whisk him away to foreign lands of mystery and beauty and everlasting love.

Kurt raises his eyes to the boy who took him in from the cool summer air and he smiles.

"My handsome, valiant knight."

And then the world goes dark.

He wakes, eyes blurred. It's dark and he wonders if he's dead, if this is the afterlife. The world comes back into focus, slowly, so painfully slow and the colours leak back into view. He sees the movement in his peripheral vision and he turns his head too quickly, twisting his neck. There's a sharp and then dull and temporary pain and he closes his eyes briefly, but opens them again, for fear that he'll drift back into the darkness.

The movement to his side is the boy, his knight, the one with the eyes.

"I'm alive," Kurt announces.

The boy, Blaine, he stills and turns fast and he's by Kurt's side before he can think of more words to speak.

"You can sleep more," Blaine tells him in a whisper. "You need it."

Kurt pushes himself up, looks around, feels dizzy. "How long...?"

"A couple of hours," Blaine says. "Didn't you sleep last night?"

Kurt's mind wanders back to the howl of the wolves and the stifling hot air, the haunting hoot of the looming owl. He shakes his head. "Wolves," he whispers, like that one word explains everything.

It doesn't.

Suddenly, a warm hand is on his shoulder, easing him back into the mattress. Kurt does not protest, for the bright, burning eyes are kind and on him in a way no eyes have ever been on him before.

"Lay with me."

Blaine stills again and then nods, uncertain. He kicks off his shoes and lays back next to Kurt, the bed dipping slightly. They lay in silence, both thinking about a stranger in a strange bed, a stranger who is not a stranger to one and a bed which is not strange to the other.

"What age are you?" Kurt whispers, tracing the cracks in the ceiling with his gaze.

"Seventeen," Blaine says.

"Me, too."

Hearts beat in silence for a minute more.

"You live alone?" Kurt makes it a question.

Blaine shakes his head, realises Kurt isn't looking. "No," he says.

"You're alone."

Blaine nods. "I'm alone."

Kurt turns on his side and his bones ache and creak. They shouldn't, he's young, but they do. He presses his warm mouth to Blaine's clothed shoulder, he can feel the heat radiating off of his body. He inches back, looks in his eyes.

"We can be alone together."

They smile, sleep, keep their hands clasped and the moon rises and falls and the sun comes up and the birds sing and two boys wake, still smiling. They stay right there until the alarm clock shrills and demands their attention, demands that they get up, face the unpredictable day.

It's not a bad one.