#The plastic of his limbs and torso are completely different colors I love him

[triple-pupil]

Finally.

I have him.

After so long.

HE IS FINALLY IN MY HANDS.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHHAHA

[writingsbymo-mo]

Nightmare to a Dream

Atsuhiro Sako (Mr. Compress) x Reader

Contains: angst, mentions of blood, fake character death (you’ll see why), comfort, fluff

I apologize in advance if this makes you cry. It hurt to write some of this...why did I write this 😂

__________________________

Your eyes snapped open as the ground shook from a loud explosion. "W-where am I?" You uttered in a slight frenzy.

Rubble from collapsed buildings scattered all around you. A few walls were all that remained of some. The sky was gray and black from nearby fires that smelled of burning rubber, plastic, and wood. Your eyes watered from the smoke, blurring your vision. You weren't home from what you could tell. Or, it at least didn't seem like home.

You examined your body for any signs of injury. But, you were completely unscathed.

Your legs wobbled on the uneven ground as you shifted your body to stand. All around you was complete ruin. You soon took in that you couldn't see any signs of life around you. It was pure, utter silence. An itch burned within you, wanting to confirm if you were alone. "Hello," you shouted, "is anyone there?"

Of course.

No answer.

Sighing, you trudged through the rubble of what appeared to be a paved road now littered with the remnants of whatever explosions occurred here. You hoped to find a sign of another human. Better yet, your sworn crush Atsuhiro.

Every time you saw him, your heart skipped a beat. It didn't matter if you rarely ever saw his face underneath his decorated masks, he always made you warm and fuzzy on the inside. Just once, you wish you had the courage to tell him your true feelings.

Clang. You whipped your head towards the sound of metal banging together. A chill ran down your spine. Curiosity overtook you. Your nerves stood on end but you decided to investigate. It could be another person.

"Hello?" You yelled, cupping a hand near your mouth this time.

"(Y/n)?" A low voice responded.

Your eyes widened in surprise. It was almost too good to be true. Your feet shuffled under the pavement to a clearing. And there, you saw him, just mere meters away. Tears pooled into your eyes in happiness at the sight of him. He was still in his usual attire. "Ha–Atsuhiro!"

Atsuhiro turned his head towards you but then, his whole body flinched and he sprinted towards you. "(Y/n), run! The wall is collapsing!"

"Wall?" You oversaw your surroundings and there it was. A chunk of the wall ground together as it began to loosen. Fear washed over you. Your heart hammered in your chest as panic settled in. You could hardly hear the yells coming from Atsuhiro in your current state.

The chunk of concrete wall slipped, falling directly towards your frozen form. You desperately wanted to move but your legs disobeyed your demands. A flood of tears swept across your face, knowing this was your end. "I'm sorry," you croaked.

Suddenly, a strong force pushed you out of the way. You skidded across the ground, scraping your limbs when you heard a loud thud and groan from behind you. The mere sound made your stomach churn. You didn't dare to look back. You didn't want to think about who made that noise. But you knew. You dreaded not moving that very moment. "N-no....please...no..."

You winced, squeezing your eyes shut as you turned around, shuddering in fear. Slowly, you opened your eyes, nearly throwing up at the sight. "W-why...why didn't I...m-move...," you whispered through broken gasps.

"(Y/n)......p-please...I.," Atsuhiro cried weakly, coughing up blood. The piece of the wall landed on his lower torso. More rubble had fallen beside him. The mask on his face had cracked and fallen off, revealing his chestnut eyes that were once so bright now dim and ridden with pain. He reached a trembling arm towards you, wanting you to come closer.

You burst into a sob and crawled towards him. Through broken glass and concrete, you made it to Atsuhiro. He smiled a very weak smile. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry," you wailed, grasping his hand.

"It's...alright...you were just scared," he spoke between breaths. His other hand shook, wiping a tear from your face.

"B-but it's not alright Atsuhiro...y-you're..." You took your free hand to cover your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut. "It's all my fault..."

You heard him sigh and cough again. "(Y/n), please l-look at me."

Nodding, you slowly opened your eyes and wiped off some of the flowing tears.

His thumb rolled circles over your cheek. "Don't blame yourself for this. I just wanted you to be safe."

Mixed feelings of guilt, dread, and that warm, fuzzy feeling filled you. His smile really pulled a number on you. The tears wouldn't stop. You only wished this had never happened. Maybe then, you could've had that late-night dinner with Atsuhiro or even just a day for the two of you to spend together. Just that perfect day where he'd kiss you with so much love, you wouldn't want him to stop. But, now...

"(Y/n)," Atsuhiro interrupted your thoughts.

"Y-yes?" You stuttered through a sob, inching closer to him.

Another cough left his blood-stained lips. He winced then cleared his throat. "Before I go, I just wanted to say....I...I..love you..."

"Y-y-you...love me?" You gasped, slapping your hands over your mouth. He loved you. He actually loved you. With a sigh, you decided it was now or never. "Atsuhiro, I-I lo..."

But, it was too late.

His hand slipped from your face much to your horror. You snatched his arm, holding it against your face. Your stomach churned, making you nauseous. "N-no...no...please...please come back Atsuhiro..."

You wish you hadn't been near that wall. You wish you could've moved in that moment. You wish you could hear his voice again. If only. So many of these thoughts wrecked your mind. Your heart squeezed in pain as you sobbed and wheezed through the infinite nightmare.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

(Y/n)

"If only I...had..."

(Y/n)

"I love you..."

(Y/N)

Your eyes snapped open, revealing a figure looming over your body in your bedroom, dimly lit from the light from the hallway. A sheen of sweat glistened off your arms, noticing how hot you were. You panted heavily as your body trembled, taking everything in. It was only a dream...a nightmare.

"Are you alright, (y/n)? I heard you screaming," Atsuhiro asked. He wasn't wearing his decorative mask revealing his concerned expression.

Without hesitating, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him onto you in your soft bed as real tears began to soak into Atsuhiro's shirt.

A bit befuddled by your actions, his breath hitched in surprise. "(Y/n)?"

"I-I'm so glad...you're still here," you sobbed.

His expression softened, returning your embrace as he pulled you to sit up and lean on his chest. "Of course I'm still here," he said, "why wouldn't I be?"

You sniffled, gripping onto his shirt firmly. "I-I watched you d-die...I..."

He squeezed you tight and began rubbing circles onto your back. "Shhh, don't worry, it was just a dream."

The dreadful emotions that still engulfed you ebbed away from his soothing voice as your tears came to a stop. Soon, your emotions were replaced by the warm, fuzzy feeling you were all too familiar with. You wondered if the Atsuhiro in your dreams felt the same as the real one, holding you so close you could hear his heartbeat. "A-Atsuhiro..."

"Yes, (y/n)?" He asked curiously.

"Um, I...want to tell you something, something I should've done a while ago..." You lifted your head, gazing at his chestnut eyes, trying to hold back a blush.

He closed his eyes briefly and nodded, listening for whatever you wished to say.

You bit your bottom lip, butterflies swarming in your stomach. It was now or never you tried to tell yourself. You took in a large breath and relaxed. "I...I love you." A pink hue dusted your cheeks as your eyes looked away, unsure if you wanted to see his reaction.

His right hand slithered off your back to cup your face. The gesture, gentle and warm. He whispered, "(y/n), can I tell you something?"

Your eyes darted to see some of his face a slightly different color under the dim light. You nodded, a bit nervous as to what he'd say.

Atsuhiro leaned his head in, closer to yours. His warm breath fanned against your face. Mere millimeters from your lips, he spoke, "I love you too, (y/n)." He then pressed his soft lips against yours, causing you to squeak before melting into the kiss.

His lips were warm and inviting. Tender, yet filled with a hunger waiting to be shown. He gripped your shirt, pulling your body flush against his as you wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to deepen the kiss.

You attempted to return the kiss with the same intensity as his own. It was heavenly. You didn't want to stop just yet. If only his balaclava was off so you could maybe play with his hair. You decided to save that for another time. His lips satisfied your desire for him just enough.

After another minute, the kiss was broken, leaving the two of you panting in the slightest.

Atsuhiro chuckled, stroking your face so tenderly. "You know, I was waiting to confess my love for you when the right moment came."

Your eyes widened, sparkling in surprise. "You were?!!"

He kissed your cheek in response. "Yes, I was. But alas, you beat me to it, my love."

The sweet little nickname filled you with giddiness as your face turned scarlet. You were so glad you finally confessed, getting it off your chest. Now, you can finally go on those dream dates with him.

Your eyes grew heavy, making you yawn. "Mmm, I think I'm going back to bed."

Atsuhiro nodded and removed his arms from you. He got off the bed, watching you situate yourself under the covers. Leaning over you, he planted one last kiss on your lips and bid you goodnight.

Maybe now, you could go back to sleep without another nightmare. If you did, you knew your dear Atsuhiro would come for you.

[donttellthemangosiwashere]

Creativitwins as... (1: Ball Pit)

Creativitwins as things me and my twin brother have done, part one of who knows man

I am remus and my twin bro is roman. no shit, nearly 1 to 1 re-skinning of one of our childhood moments

Tags: Human au i guess? I cast Deceit as dad so there's that, couldn't decide between him and Logan for a while but i think this fits. Sympathetic Deceit and Remus, clearly. Creativitwins fluff, some light violence (like a snowball fight sort of game… i dunno me and my bro were little stupid)

---

     Roman and Remus loved to play in the McDonald's playpen, with all the colorful plastic balls, pretending to themselves that the rainbow orbs were fairies that swarmed inside a bottomless pit. Roman preferred to pretend the fae gathered there to hold children up and keep them from falling forever; Remus liked to think they were evil fey, trying to drag you down to your doom. 

     They turned the two 'theories' into a game -- they would play the meddling fairies, and gather plastic balls to dump on each other in an attempt to bury the other deeper into the pit. Roman was faster and more dexterous, swimming through the pit like a graceful dolphin in a sea of orbeez, gathering armfuls and armfuls to dump on his brother, balancing an impressive amount of toys for someone with no stable feet on the ground.

     Remus was more furious and frantic in approach, easily swept up in the excitement of competition. He settled on grabbing smaller handfuls of the colorful plastic balls around him (not the ones dumped on his head, cause those were Roman's points and fair is fair) and chucking them at his brother so they lightly popped off his shoulders and started to pile around him like a volcano. Roman would dive around to collect more ammunition, ruining Remus's slowly climbing mountains, but he never swam back up farther than he had last been buried, keeping the points between them consistent.

     While Roman could duck around and swim through the pit, Remus had trouble moving through the ocean at all, especially once he started to get buried pretty deep in. His throwing technique and incredible aim for a five year old made up for it, but never quite enough to win. Roman's gather-and-dump method usually just resulted in the rainbow globules bouncing off of Remus's head and rolling far enough away that they didn't count, but Roman moved so fast and gathered so many that he was doing more damage in the long run. Every game would end with Remus, now fully submerged, grabbing Roman's ankles and dragging him down with him into the pit, leaving them both surrounded by colored bubbles that glowed ever so slightly with the light seeping in from the nearby giant playhouse window. 

     It was like standing inside a rainbow, surrounded like being plunged into the deep end of a pool, but perfectly able to breathe, no more than the pressure of a heavy quilt around their bodies. The vibrant colors, cool touch of plastic, and golden sunlight breaking through in streams gave it a magical feel. It was one of their favorite places, despite the number of times other kids had jumped into the pit and landed on one of the buried boys, assuming they had the fairy pool to themself. They would stay there underneath the tide, cackling over their game and how Remus cheated every time by grabbing his ankles, until their vivid imaginations got the best of them and they made their way out, afraid of drifting too close to the part of the bottomless pit that didn't have fairies to save them. (The day they were old enough and tall enough to discover the bottom of the mock-pool was a very boring day indeed.)

     Today, like any other day after being picked up from school by their father, they were taken back to the fast food restaurant, who hoped that they would tire themselves out enough to take naps once they got home. As soon as they were done eating, they dashed for the ball pit, ignoring their guardian's usual joke about how they shouldn't go swimming right after they eat. It wasn't real swimming, dad.

     And so the game began. Remus shimmying madly as he tried to gain some sort of motor function in the mess of colors, lobbing globes at his brother as he ducked around and meticulously gathered one of each color, making sure he had at least one complete rainbow to start the game. They didn't notice when another, slightly older kid joined them in the pit, watching them cavort around and laugh and screech. They did notice when a yellow ball smacked against Roman's neck, catching him off guard and making him swallow his laughter. They both turned and gave the newbie a confused, borderline angry look. He just shrugged, grabbed another, and threw at Roman again. Roman ducked that one easily, then dove down into the rainbow sea, scaring the other boy a little bit. (Remus decided it was, in fact, Roman being freaking weird, and not Remus being unable to swim.)

     Roman popped back up in front of the stranger gathered some orbs into his arms, and dumped them onto the kid's head with a smile.

     "No, you play like this!" He explained with a laugh when the other kid gave him a disgusted expression.

     "That's no fun, I wanna throw 'em, like he does."

     "I wasn't throwing!" Remus grumbled, offended at the accusation, "I was tossing, totally different! See,"

     Remus grabbed a blue globe and 'tossed' it to Roman, and Roman didn't flinch as it softly batted his shoulder and bounced away. Roman turned to the other kid with the same smile still on his face,

     "Like that! You can play, but you can't hurt anybody."

     "Okay." He nodded, and started pulling more toys to himself as if gathering for a snowball fight. Roman dolphined away again, gathering another pile. Roman switched between the new player and his brother, Remus had no trouble picking favorites, his crosshairs never leaving his brother's torso. Unfortunately, the new kid had the same idea, and the notion of "don't hurt anybody" went completely ignored. He kept beaning Roman, plastic orbs whizzing by his head and slapping into him with audible thwacks, and Remus knew they couldn't hurt that bad, but he was still getting more and more furious. 

     Finally, it happened. A red ball, right into his open eye. Roman stopped ducking around, little hands holding the front of his face as it scrunched up, in an expression Remus recognized as him desperately trying not to cry. Fed up, Remus wiggled furiously until he was facing the new kid, and he threw a ball at him to get his attention. He might have been aiming for his head, sure, but that was totally warranted, Remus thought. (Besides, he missed.)

     "Hey! That hurts, stupid! Stop throwing!"

     "Be nice!" Roman managed between his hands, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. They were red and puffy, but his eyes hadn't fallen out or anything, which was something Remus had worried for a moment -- his imagination manifested in strange ways.

     "You can't play if you're going to be mean!" Remus demanded, putting his metaphorical foot down, as when he tried to stomp his feet literally it was incredibly disorienting to not land on anything hard, and did in fact look a little ridiculous. The other boy glared at him and stuck his tongue out, and Remus felt the heat blaze up his cheeks.

     Just as he decided to return the gesture, he felt the soft plips of plastic rain on his head as colored globes bounced off his head, and he saw his smiling brother out of the corner of his eye. Remus elected to ignore the other kid in favor of playfully shoving his brother down into the pit by his shoulders and laughing,

     "Ew, gross, I had my mouth open, Ro!"

     "Eww! Sorry!" Roman laughed, disappearing under the bubbles.

     "They taste like feeeeet! ... You should try one--"

     "EW, Rem, stop!"

     He forgot about the other boy in seconds, his attention wholly consumed by the urge to bury his brother into the fae-swarmed sea of death below their feet. He gathered the little plastic toys, throwing two or three at a time, flailing around with every limb in his fervor to compete. In the chaos of his own disastrous dance, he didn't even feel it when the purple sphere thumped harshly against the back of his head, thrown from just a few feet away. He hardly noticed that he hadn't seen Roman come back up in a while, assuming he was still swimming around, looking for a strategic position out of Remus's throwing range. He didn't even think to look at the floor outside of the playpen, where Roman had climbed up, and was jogging behind him.

     He did hear the screaming.

     His head whipped around, just barely catching the sight of Roman in the air, descending like an unfurled cannonball onto the other kid. He landed on the older boy, and started wailing on him with both arms, punching him and yelling and the kid haphazardly swung back and screamed in return. Remus watched for a few seconds, totally in awe, until he felt the bruise forming at the base of his neck and realized what had spurred this attack on. He started writhing, trying to get over to them and so something -- pull the older kid off of Roman? Maybe. Help Roman punch the life out of him? More likely -- more furious now with his inability to swim in fairies than ever.

     He heard a woman yelling, and turned to look back at the eating area where she was standing, but he didn't listen to what she was saying. He was more concerned with the look on his father's face -- bowler hat pulled down at an angle to subtly hide himself from the mother's vision, other hand clasped over his mouth, a fervent and obvious smile in his eyes as he urgently and unsuccessfully willed himself not to laugh. When she made a move towards the three of them, Dad stood up, beating her to the door as he walked over and stood in front of the still dueling duo. He told Roman to let the other kid go. Roman kept swinging.

     He said it again, more sternly this time.

     Roman kept swinging.

     He crouched down in front of him and grabbed his shoulders, yelling now.

     Roman shrugged him off.

     Remus was grinning madly now, and Dad gave Roman an incredulous look as he continued to beat down on the stranger, his mother still yelling from the doorway. Dad grumbled and stepped into the pool -- an absolutely beautiful expression on his face as he almost slipped, and had to catch himself -- and grabbed both boys by their shirts, forcibly dragging them away from each other. Roman was still struggling, relaxing only when the other boy immediately ran behind his mother's legs as soon as he was released. 

     Dad scolded Roman for a second, then let him go and went to talk to the strangers. Roman trudged through the pit, joining Remus closer towards the middle. They didn't say anything for a long time, a frustrated pout on Roman's face as Remus smiled like he had just been given Christmas early.

     "You're in trouuubleeee~!" Remus sang, shimmying his shoulders as Roman finally cracked a smile.

     "He deserved it, he was a bully!" Roman huffed, but Remus saw him puffing out his chest just slightly.

     "You actually started a fight! Dad's gonna kill you."

     "Wha-- I didn't start it! He started it!"

     "Boys!"

     They both jumped, a shared panic flashing through their eyes as they slowly turned to face their father. He was looking down at them with a painfully neutral face, and gestured for them to get out of the pool. Remus had half a mind to let the bottomless pit take them to Narnia or something, but Roman was already helping him up onto the carpeted floor. 

     The walk to the car was silent -- and thank god Dad and the Lady didn't make them apologize to that kid, or a now mobile Remus would have socked him just to prove a point -- and when they clambered into the back seat, they waited for him to say something. He slowly closed the drivers side door, clicked in his seat belt, started the engine, adjusted the mirror, stalling...

     And then he started laughing.

     Remus and Roman looked at each other, wide eyed, identical grins creeping onto their faces.

     "You two are going to be the death of me. Wait until your father hears about this."

     "So we're not in trouble?" Roman asked sheepishly, a stark contrast to the giddy swinging of his legs. Dad laughed again.

     "You would have been the only one in trouble, Roman. Violence is not the answer to a problem." Dad scolded, and Roman deflated a little, until Dad reached back from his seat, turning to face the boys and ruffling their hair in turn.

     "But, I'm proud of you for sticking up for each other, in your own way... Besides -- don't tell your father i said so -- but he totally deserved it."

     The radio switched on, blaring Disney music as laughter exploded from the troublesome twins.

[bwprowl]

Being a distinctly collector-focused line, Bandai’s new Digivolving Spirits would need to introduce some villains sooner or later. Rather than going for one of the more show-iconic singular forms like Devimon or Myotismon though, they went with the fan-favorite movie monster actually known for Digivolving. Diaboromon is here, and they somehow figured out how to get this toy to transform from his earlier squid-kid form Keramon.

Diaboromon (or Diablomon, if you will) is definitely the main even here though. He’s packed in this mode, and as I believe the first properly posable, collector-level-detailed figure of this wondrous war-game-wager, he’s already filling a niche we needed. Thankfully then, this is just a good Diaboromon figure on its own here. His lanky limbs lend themselves well to simple, smooth, effective joints with a ton of range of motion, enhanced by his universal feet (with ankle rockers!) and extremely expressive hands. These hands are awesome, by the way. Each finger is double-jointed on a ball section at the base, letting him curl ‘em around naturally. His thumbs are a bit more restricted, but it still all works together wonderfully to really sell virtually any pose you stick him in.

The use of die-cast metal on this thing is extremely well thought-out. It finally thinks to go the opposite of so many toys (particularly those of yesteryear) and uses metal in the *joints* while the other parts of the limbs are cast in plastic. This results in some serious stability and effective posing leverage. He’s also got plenty of the stuff in his torso, so despite being a thing, lanky design capped off with huge hollow plastic shoulderpads, he’s still got a distinct chunk of heft to him.

The only minor oddity in the articulation is actually the colors. This toy tries to pull off the same color-scheme-changing trickery as Tamashii’s used on previous transforming Digimon toys (most recently near-perfected in their new Digivolving Wargreymon figure), with arms that are split between Diaboromon gray and Keramon blue. The idea is that you rotate whichever face you need out properly for your particular pose, but the practice makes that tedious and tricky depending on how wild your monster is looking at the moment. It’s not all too bad, since the colors mesh together well enough at a distance that it never looks overly off, and I guess it’s not much of a criticism of a toy to say they tried too hard on it.

Unlike previous, self-encompassed entries, he’s actually got an accessory! That iconic clock he taunted our heroes with in the movie is included, as a painted die-cast piece. There’s no dedicated way for him to hold it, you just balance it in his hands (some times more precariously than others) or stick it on his stand for effect. It’s really appreciated as a bonus, and shows a nice level of love that went into making this thing.

Transformation is as cleverly efficient as this line has gotten at the business of turning things that don’t look at all alike into each other. It mostly seems predicated on the designers looking at the creatures and going “Hey, most of the defining bits here are pretty thin and compact, but they’ve both got places we could stash those away in either mode”. Keramon’s head-halves hide under Diaboromon’s shoulderpads (complete with courtesy grooves so you know exactly what orientation to place them in) which rotate around to become a tentacle-skirt that Diaboromon’s entire torso and legs store under in Keramon mode. Then the hands just flip over and fold out a different set of fingers.

The concessions to transformation necessity do leave this jovial jellyfish with some odd proportions, admittedly. It looks kinda like Keramon is trying to smuggle something in under his dress, which he of course is. It ends up working in his favor though, and the wide walking tentacle clump actually lets him stand even without the aid of the included stand. And even if the transformation knocks out the possibility of an articulated head, he’s still a surprisingly expressive little weirdo thanks entirely to those amazing arms (and some mildly movable antennae). His folded-up floppy fingers are their own particular brand of odd, but they work for the distinct way Keramon normally has his hands, which also helps to hide the Diaboromon claws stored underneath.

Still-secondary as it is, the Keramon mode works as a gimmick inclusion, and the primary Diaboromon mode is very welcome to have as-is. This is a fun, fiddly toy that’s also impeccably detailed and constructed; pretty much the ideal of the collector action figure set. That it’s *finally* a good, cool, high-level figure of this guy released is just appreciable icing. Definitely recommendable for any fans out there.

So that was fun! Good to see you everyone, same time next week!

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Spaniard

I was once given a gift of love by a stranger.

It lasted only a few hours of one evening, but it seemed like an époque, an age of unalloyed bliss. I could, of course, elucidate for you the mechanics of our pleasure … pepper this text with explicit particulars, offer up all the "naughty bits" that people love to fixate on. With a few choice expletives, I could stir your discomfort or your titillation, your outrage or your envy. But I'll spare you all that, and share with you instead the emotional epiphany that bloomed within this one encounter. Trust me, as I lead you into and out of the hothouse.

The stranger and I walked towards one another from opposite ends of a hallway … both of us clad only in towels, striding barefoot by closed doors, from behind which we could hear all the moans and slaps and sighs of a place like this, a place where men gather to lose themselves in pleasure, or pain, or both. In the dim center of the hall, we passed one another, unable to see much more than our outlines … for in a house of red lights, there are only silhouettes, blurry and unfixed suggestions, just enough visibility to define a few salient details. You can see things that suggest the paintings of Francis Bacon: cages, metal rails, open mouths, anatomy lit by televisions or neon, torsos half-cloaked in shadow, limbs dangling from slings, nightmarish smears instead of faces. Club music pulses from hidden speakers. If you have a checklist of sorts, and many men do, you could stand under a bare bulb, and see if each potential dance partner passes muster ... but you probably wouldn’t glean very much, because certain kinds of dark have a real thickness to them.

I could not see him, but I could feel him, even from a distance.

The gravity in the room had changed. Suddenly, we were like two comets of equal mass, each interrupting the other's trajectory, turning until we were in a locked orbit around one another, spinning together through the glittering dust of space and time. He guided me backwards through the hall, until we stood under a lantern, and we looked into one another's eyes, and everywhere else, and nothing that I saw under the scarlet lamp surprised me, save for the irresistibility of his dimples. But in that moment, I knew him, and he knew me.

The first thing I did was to place my hand upon his heart, and he placed his own hand atop it. I reached up with my free hand, and ran my fingers through his beard, and he did the same with mine. The hair on his jaw was soft, luxuriant. He closed his eyes, and I could feel his grin more than I could see it. Everything else fell away: the DJ's music and its insistent "untz-untz-untz", the reek of poppers and desperation, the nearby custodian with his latex gloves and disinfectant. We were alone.

Arm in arm, we walked back to the room I had rented. It featured a narrow twin-sized bed, with the cheap kind of plastic-covered mattress that is easy to clean. There was a storage locker beneath, and a monitor on a tilted bracket, and a mirrored wall. Not much for décor, but it was sufficient.

After an initial, overpowering rush of ardor, we strung our remaining hours together with long passages of conversation. I learned all that I could. He was an architect, and a polyglot … born and raised in Spain, now living in Germany and working in France. While men in other rooms around us groaned through their catalogue of kinks, their grunted litanies, the architect and I just lay there, naked and entwined, and talked about art. We talked about Matthias Grünewald's "Crucifixion", the interpenetrating forms of Moshe Safdie's "Habitat 67", the genius of the Centre Georges Pompidou, and Moroccan food. We talked about Serge Gainsbourg, Divine, Carravaggio, the Taj Mahal, Versailles, Berlin's decadent years, and Bernini's "Ecstasy of St. Theresa" … to which, a short while later, my facial expression would be favorably compared. Our conversation flowed with such ease, such candor … it seemed we had been friends for years, rather than minutes. Obviously, we did much more than talk, but our dialogue was every bit as stimulating as all of the nonverbal, concupiscent business.

Men in our culture are trained from an early age to avoid intimacy. Vulnerability and emotional availability are seen as a weakness. Even platonic affection is looked upon unfavorably. The "bro-hug", in which the two parties' bent arms and clasped fists form a boundary, a barrier to real closeness, is an unsatisfying expression of our anxiety. Men are so starved for touch that we sexualize and even pathologize our needs; love becomes horseplay in the locker-room, trust becomes violent sport, lust becomes wrestling, and curiosity becomes a secret assignation in an underground cave. Men are encouraged to swallow their emotions, wall up their desires, and refrain from physical bonding. As a result, some butch dudes are drawn to heavy BDSM scenes as a way of coping with this conflict … own pain before it owns you, use ritualized shame to regain a sense of control. “Real men” punch each other instead of kissing. “Real men” rape or get raped.

In this setting, in this harsh climate, two men lying peacefully in each other's arms can feel like a revolutionary act.

All around us, we heard sounds of guys hurting one another, or begging to be hurt. All of the devils in Hell were howling. Masculinity became a showy, loud parade of safewords and signifiers, and from behind a hundred closed doors rose a chorus of denials, denigrations, demands. Meanwhile, in the midst of all this, the architect and I embraced. As our neighbors spat and hurled invective at one another, the Spaniard and I examined, and fondled, and praised all that we touched. We took our time to explore, without fear of reprisal or rejection, and to enjoy all the soft, yielding sensations of adoration.

What I remember most is the sense of permission. Permission to touch, to look, to sniff, to taste, to explore, to enjoy. Permission to relax, to be present, to lounge lazily together on the cheap mattress, nuzzling, with neither goal nor expectation. I rested my head on his chest while he pressed words and kisses onto my brow. Later, during one of our numerous sweating ascents, as we worked together towards our white hot rewards, I stared upwards into his eyes, and received his gaze in return, holding his face between my hands as we moved in unison. We felt unashamed. There was nothing dirty in our coupling, nothing furtive or tainted. It was pure.

A few hours later, after a refreshing shower, we left the bathhouse together and walked through Capitol Hill, ground zero of Seattle's queer life. As a teenager, I had spent a great deal of time there. When I was a young punk-tinged faggot in the height of the AIDS era, this neighborhood was holy ground. It was the first place where I saw that love could be weaponized. It was the first place where I wore queer clothing, hung out with my queer friends, raised my fist in queer solidarity. It was where I could try on various adolescent identities to see what would stick: affected conceptual artiste, potsmoking poet in a black beret and hoop earring, goth queen with runny mascara and ratted hair, pacifist protestor in army jacket and combat boots. Capitol Hill was my real schoolhouse, long after I had abandoned the silly structures of high school. I explained all of this to the Spaniard as we strolled, arm in arm, through the soft, tepid drizzle.

He wanted to sit for a while. We found a quiet, romantic restaurant, the kind of joint with pressed tin ceilings and good lighting. The kitchen was closed, but he got a beer and I got a coffee. There, away from the red bulbs, away from the growling animals, I could look deeply into his eyes, and really study him, and I found that he was even more beautiful than before.

But for all of his graces, and there were many, the Spaniard had one very strange, slightly unsettling aspect … his face kept changing.

It wasn't just his expression. He looked utterly different from moment to moment, shockingly so. His ethnicity was impossible to guess. All the countries of Eurasia battled for supremacy over his features; sometimes he appeared Greek, sometimes Italian, sometimes Turkish, sometimes Dutch. Between sentences, his eye color changed, his nose grew longer or shorter, his cheekbones raised or lowered, his hair thinned or thickened. I've known a few shapeshifters in my life, and have studied other historical ones, people like Feodor Chaliapin, but I have never before encountered one as startlingly adept as this. If I were not so completely convinced of his kindness, his abundant and quite obvious goodness, I would be terrified by the plasticity of his appearance. I gasped aloud a few times as I watched it happen. I knew that I was not going mad, that I was not hallucinating. His face was transforming itself before my eyes. He was an angel who couldn't choose which human skin to wear.

We lingered for a long while, trying the patience of the waitstaff, who were probably eager to finish up their tickets for the evening. We talked about his life in Germany, his upcoming teaching appointment at a university in France. We talked about our relationships, the failures and the successes, the crushed dreams and the enduring flames. We tried to compress as many of our life stories as we could into the tiny space between us.

I told him about the fate of my poor William, who slid into a spiral of drugs and madness and loneliness, a decline that ended with his putrefaction in a darkened hallway. The Spaniard listened to all this, wide-eyed and silent, nodding, and he held my hand throughout. After I finished, and was left at a loss for words, surprising myself once again by the intensity of my grief, he came round the table without a word and held me, cradling my head against his bosom, stroking my hair. He did this with no self-consciousness, even though we were sitting right by the front windows, in plain sight of the passersby. It was the sweetest expression of love, abundant love, and I drank of it like a burnt man in the desert.

Shortly after midnight, I walked him back to his hotel. It had gotten colder, after the rain. Our arms remained wrapped tightly around one another the entire time. We came at last to his place, where he would meet his traveling companion; they would head off in the morning to Vancouver, and then onwards to home. We kissed, and then I confessed what I had known, with absolute certainty, since I first placed my hand upon his breast … that I loved him. And I meant it, so much so that I felt as if a part of my heart were being wrenched from its anchors. And then I walked away, smiling but reluctant, shoving my hands into my pockets and leaning into the quickly chilling air. The night collapsed between us like the Red Sea.

It's quite unlikely that I'll ever see him again. He lives, after all, on the other side of the ocean, near the intersection of Germany, France, and Switzerland, where he has all the riches of Europe at his disposal … while I live in a vapid cultural wasteland, where teenagers eat detergent and racists burn their shoes. I'm desperately poor, and don't know how I could possibly get back to that part of the world.

But, it doesn't really matter, anyway. He gave me the gift that I needed. Right as we were about to part, I realized, as he held his lips against mine, that the intensity of our coupling was as much a matter of urgency as it was pleasure. Seeing the approaching end of something brought every moment into sharp relief. Yes, we met in a lurid place, and yes, our romance could only last for one evening. But the fleeting nature of this encounter helped give shape to our joy, definition to our goodwill. Our dalliance was not the vast ocean of a long marriage, with many tempests and calms; ours was a tiny alpine pond, ringed with wildflowers and glinting in the sun, lasting only a season, or a tidepool that came alive for a few hours, rippling atop a shoreline rock. In its brevity it was perfect. In the days to come I will think of him, and cherish our one flawless night, turning it over and over again in my mind like a faceted jewel, a gem made more brilliant by its rarity. And the next time I'm asked what it means to fall in love at first sight, I will recall the Spaniard, and his devastating dimples, and his gentle radiance … and while I must keep for myself much of what he whispered to me, in the dark, I will later relay in short conversational bursts our glimpse of heaven, our small but significant triumph over wickedness, and what we discovered together in the middle of the bathhouse, way down in the lowly maze where men descend together, into the depths, under the infernal glare of red.

[triple-pupil]

What do ya got the face of your soulmate nemesis plastered on your thigh for?

Whore

Finally.

I have him.

After so long.

HE IS FINALLY IN MY HANDS.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHHAHA