Tired out by the afternoon’s lengthy visit to the Musée National du Moyen-Age, Wynn entered his hotel room so quietly that if anyone had been inside they would not have known he was there, which was just as well, he quickly realised, for someone actually was in his room, sleeping in the bed.

Even had it been in his nature to be easily annoyed, Wynn could not have summoned the necessary energy, so he merely placed his shoulder-bag on the floor and crossed the room to the windows in preparation for opening the curtains in a somewhat dramatic fashion, thus letting in the low sunlight whose noon heat had recently been kept at bay by the thickly-lined drapes. As he passed the end of the bed, however, he experienced a strange scent that was rather like the faded memory of something pleasantly floral, and as his hand touched the curtain to let a sliver of pale orange sunlight arc across the room, Wynn had to hold back the gasp that would otherwise have escaped his throat, for the bed was occupied not by a slumbering femme de chambre but the most beautiful boy he had ever seen.

Wild russet hair was strewn in dark waves across the white pillow, forming a lop-sided halo of fire around an oval face whose smooth skin seemed to shine in the beam of light just cast upon it. The boy was only a couple of years younger than Wynn, and his lips were set in a slight pout, but his breathing, though regular, verged on the strained rather than being gentle and relaxed, whilst beneath the curled auburn lashes his eyes moved erratically. One bare shoulder protruded from the top of the duvet, his left arm lying across his chest whilst his fingers clawed into the fabric as if it was a literal safety-blanket, then in response to the pressure of sunlight or some instinctive knowledge of another’s presence his eyes opened, but even before Wynn’s gasp finally left his mouth the boy had rolled out of bed and almost jumped to the furthest corner of the room, clutching the duvet around his otherwise naked body.

“What…?” Wynn’s surprise was split three ways, each of which vied with one another for attention.

He was torn between the unusually pale turquoise eyes which had stared up at him upon opening and that now watched him fretfully, darting all around as if calculating opportunities for flight; the range and intensity of the raw emotions that had flitted so quickly yet clearly across the startled face: fear, desperation, even a form of longing, all underpinned by a deep-rooted sadness; and the sheer speed and agility of well-coordinated movements as he sought to distance himself from anyone who might harm him.

Wynn fully opened the curtains and remained on that side of the room so as not to frighten the boy any further, but now what was he to do?

“Français?” he ventured, and though his own accent was rather good considering the few times he had been to Paris, he could read more French that he could speak and only converse in the general phrases sufficient for an educated tourist. “Deutsche? Español?” Wynn sighed, and muttered to himself, “Just as well, I don’t know any,” then tried his last hope, “English?” and saw an unconscious response flicker across the boy’s face in a betrayal of recognition.

“Much as I enjoy having a gorgeous boy in my bed, I try to get to know them first,” Wynn smiled, but the attempt at humour was utterly lost on the stranger, who remained huddled in the corner, pushing his back into the wall as if to try and pass through it to the corridor outside. “It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you, but I really do think you should get back into bed, otherwise you’ll only get cold. I suppose I should be annoyed, but I’m really far too tired. You surprised me, that’s all, which is hardly my fault as this is my room. Did you just want somewhere to sleep?”

As before, a surprising range of emotions crossed the boy’s face, which seemed incapable of hiding his true feelings. The faintest of blushes coloured his cheeks, which was interesting as it meant he was pleased rather than angered by the compliment, then desperate hope surfaced again at the knowledge that not only would there would be no retribution for his trespass, but also he was being invited to return to the warm bed he had so recently left.

“I’m Wynn,” said Wynn as he walked to the doorway leading to the compact en-suite bathroom. “My feet are aching and I need a long soak. If you’re still here when I get out, we can talk, but can you at least let me know your name?”

“Mihhaelo,” the boy’s reply was a whisper, though his rather flat intonation contained the distant memory of something melodic, probably from central Eire.

“My halo?” Wynn knew he had mis-heard, but was too exhausted to enquire any further.

Despite everything that had happened in the last couple of minutes, Wynn felt the trembling boy was more frightened of him than a threat in his own right, so he turned and entered the bathroom, to find a pile of clothes folded neatly on the wicker chair, next to a small carpet-bag which had seen much better days.

A thin coat of black velvet was partially wrapped around a pale shirt that could have been mistaken for a blouse, whilst the hems of the slightly flared dark grey satin trousers told of much use, as did the tattered black boots, but despite their worn state they were all clean and of good quality, and the boy had made full use of the hotel’s complimentary soap and shampoo, which accounted for the floral scent. If these were his only possessions, at least he had tried to keep them in as good a condition as possible, but although Wynn’s own clothing and other things were kept in the wardrobe and drawers with only a handful of everyday items left out on the table for immediate attention, surely the boy must have known the room was occupied, in which case why risk discovery when he was so obviously scared?

Common sense told Wynn it was best to just tell the boy to leave, with an assurance nothing would be said to the management so that any potential arguments were defused before they had a chance to begin, but given he had been there at least since noon and not appeared to have stolen anything, he would probably depart of his own accord as Wynn bathed.

Naturally curious but not wanting to invade the other boy’s little remaining privacy by rummaging through his bag, Wynn took the other clothes out and left them on the bed as the boy remained against the wall, then returned to the bathroom and almost laughed to himself as he turned on the taps and took off his own clothing, for in other circumstances he would have wanted to gain the interest of such an attractive young man, but with his senses overwhelmed by Mediaeval art and his body tired from all the walking the only thing he wanted to do was slide into the hot water without a single thought of romance or sex passing through his mind.

Wynn lay still for a while in the small bath that could barely accommodate his straightened legs, then he washed and scrubbed himself, feeling invigorated by the sisal mitten he had brought with him as he used it to both clean his skin and massage the aching muscles beneath, but he knew the only way to feel truly better was to have a good meal, which meant a short walk to the end of the block and a choice of everything on offer along Boulevard Du Montparnasse, followed by a long sleep.

Dressed again in his pale cream jeans and white shirt, Wynn opened the bathroom window to clear the slightly humid air, looked out over the darkening verdant spread of the cemetery opposite, then re-entered his bedroom to find the boy clothed and sitting on the floor again, clutching the small bag to his chest as he stared at the neatly-made bed.

“There’s a wonderful invention called a chair,” Wynn spoke without sarcasm as he indicated the dark wooden furniture near the windows that included a bureau and a low chest of drawers, on top of which was a compact television, but why was the boy still there if he was so afraid?

Wynn knew he had spent almost twenty minutes in the bathroom, which had been more than ample time for the boy to tidy up and leave, though the fact he had made the bed again spoke volumes about his character, then Wynn realised he had locked the front door on his way in as he usually did, and kept the key in his pocket, so the other boy was trapped inside.

“You really didn’t know anyone was in here, did you?” Wynn prompted gently, and when that received no reply he sighed and continued, “I’m guessing you’ve run away from home or something like that, so I’m not going to patronise you and say I know how you feel, because I don’t, I’ve never been in that kind of situation, but isn’t there someone you can contact so they know you’re all right?”

The boy shook his head so slightly that the only sign of his negative response was a shimmering of light across his hair, which was far longer than first apparent as it tumbled onto his shoulders, and though it did not make him seem in any way feminine, it softened his features in a very pleasant way.

Wynn knew he was finding it increasingly difficult to decide what to do, for not only was he being affected by the stranger’s beauty, which made any choices biased towards a conclusion that was abhorrent given the boy’s circumstances, but also his natural empathy for anyone in trouble was sending his thoughts along lines they would otherwise not have taken, and even though he had left home himself rather than remain with his parents and continue suffering their increasingly judgemental and threatening behaviour, he was fortunate that he was already in a relationship and so could stay with Peter, rather than have to begin searching for accommodation.

Would it really do any harm to at least give the boy a proper meal? Then Wynn could have some nice company for an hour or so, and despite a natural longing he was determined that nothing more would come of the evening, both because it was disgraceful taking advantage of someone in that vulnerable position, and because although one-night stands could be very rewarding in their own way, such things were meaning less since living with Miyu and the little girl Yukiko, when despite his young age he had also begun seeking other forms of stability in his life.

Wynn stood up and slid his feet into his walking shoes, opening his bag and removing all the books and leaflets he had acquired that afternoon. He slung the much lighter bag over one shoulder and unlocked the door, then turned to face the other boy, “I’m hungry, and I think you’d like some decent food as well.”

The boy’s eyes widened in surprise at the invitation, but he remained in place even when Wynn opened the door and stepped into the angled corridor.

“If you stay here, you’ll only miss a nice meal,” said Wynn, then he felt ashamed as it might have sounded like a bribe, but even as he began to close the door to demonstrate he was indeed leaving, a blur of black and red shot past him and halted abruptly at the top of the narrow staircase, his pale shirt moving in time with his slightly flaring nostrils.

“I don’t know how well they keep track of guests,” Wynn added as he shut and locked the door again, which sound only made him wonder how the room had been entered so easily, unless the chambermaid simply thought it was the other boy’s room and let him in whilst working, only to leave him behind when she had finished.

Wynn followed the boy downstairs, and as they neared the ground floor he said, “Stay on my right when we get to the bottom and wait for me outside, I just need to check on something.”

Why did he suddenly feel guilty for saying that? It was nothing more than the truth, but as to what precisely he was checking on, it was really more of a ‘who’. At least the boy had sufficient sense to have his bag with him so there could be no excuse of returning for it later, but it was so sad for anyone to be continually moving from one place to another, knowing they were not wanted anywhere, more so for such a young person who would be more vulnerable to various forms of exploitation.

There was hardly any recognition of their presence from the lone woman currently occupying the reception desk, and as requested the boy walked straight out of the hotel, then Wynn entered the small side-lounge and sat at the desk which supported a pointlessly overly-designed box with rounded corners. Ignoring the moving background on the flat-screened monitor that was meant for people who fiddled endlessly with their computers rather than constructively used any of the programs that could be run on them, he logged in with his room details and called up the default search-engine, then typed in return1 from “soundalike ‘my halo’, name”; return2 from “paris, include return1, boy or ‘young man’ or youth, hair, red, missing or lost or wanted”.

The first result tab informed him that the boy’s name was ‘Mihhaelo’, the Esperanto form of ‘Michael’, whilst the name itself had a rather endearing pet-form of ‘Michjo’. The second query came back empty even after it had been resubmitted with the correct spelling and expanded to omit the city’s name, and for that Wynn was both grateful, as it meant he was not dealing with someone known to be unsafe, and puzzled, for judging by the still fairly good condition of his attire Mihhaelo was only recently homeless, and surely someone must have reported him missing even if it was a couple of months ago?

Unless, of course, those who knew simply did not care, which if true was as tragic as the continuing downward cast of those haunted turquoise eyes, despite the fact many people chose to disappear from family and friends for a variety of reasons that were not necessarily criminal, driven by a personal crisis or as a means of escape from emotional or physical hardship, or sexual abuse. Having seen the boy’s reactions to his own movements which had been simple and entirely innocent, Wynn knew that Mihhaelo could fit into any or even all of the categories as he seemed fearful of anyone who got too near him, but if he was so sensitive how had he managed to survive by himself in such a large city with its bustling and gregarious local life, never mind the hordes of anonymous tourists?

Wynn logged out and returned the computer to its idling state, passing reception rather than leave his keys behind as he was supposed to, though he had never been warned about it during his stay, then looked for Mihhaelo in preparation to leading him northwards, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Had the poor boy assumed Wynn was saying anything pleasant just so he would leave? Wynn shook his head in sorrow at how indiscriminately harsh was the world in general to those who could not afford to live in it the way it demanded, and continued to the main junction, then turned left, to walk slowly along the rows of brasseries.

Wynn knew the area well and had on his previous visits tried many of those restaurants he now ignored, but yesterday he had been informed by a fellow tourist of a pleasant one slightly further away near the end of the following block, and as his mind was in anticipation of the nice meal and some decent wine that awaited him he was almost oblivious to a sudden chorus of wolf-whistles and cat-calls that sounded ahead.

Though immune to their allure, Wynn knew only too well how teenage girls dressed to draw attention to themselves, and in this city more than any other there were certain ones who delighted in flirting from an early age as they took advantage of their burgeoning sexuality, but even as he passed the next restaurant, its lines of coloured bulbs vying with the regular street-lamps to illuminate the wide pavement, a cascade of dark copper drew his attention and he realised Mihhaelo was walking along the Boulevard, his long coat draped over his shoulders and hanging like a cloak.

Had the earlier comments been directed at him? It was certainly true that Mihhaelo’s beauty was undeniable, but even at this distance it was impossible to mistake him for a girl, for despite his long hair and slender waist he could never be anything other than a boy, which only increased the appeal of his underlying masculinity.

Wynn had promised someone a meal and then had his date vanish, only to reappear in the same direction Wynn himself was travelling, but he knew in his heart that it was mere coincidence and Mihhaelo had simply left him rather than walk on ahead, as the boy had no idea where Wynn was to dine, even whether it was locally or via a short and cheap Metro trip to the many streets that comprised the Left Bank.

“There you are, you silly thing,” Wynn injected a note of amusement into his voice as he caught up with the boy and slowed his pace, as if this was how they had always planned to meet up. “You should have waited, I said I wouldn’t be long.”

“I…” Mihhaelo turned at the gentle reproach, then his own voice fluctuated wildly between surprise and anger as he continued, “…I’m not a… a thing.”

“I didn’t mean…” Wynn held up his open hands in defence and, realising he had left his own sentence incomplete, added, “…it’s nice to see you again, that’s all. We’re almost there, anyway.” A slight furrow on Mihhaelo’s forehead signalled his lack of understanding, but he remained silent, so Wynn prompted. “Dinner, remember?”

Mihhaelo’s eyes widened in surprise, “You… really meant it?”

“Of course I did; I wouldn’t have said it, otherwise.”

It was only now, seeing him in a public context, that Wynn fully realised how much attention Mihhaelo drew because of his overall appearance, and Wynn felt his cheeks warm momentarily as he realised he might be seen as someone with a male prostitute, but he had never needed to stoop to such methods of acquiring a partner for the night, and as for rent-boys… Wynn shuddered at the thought, and even as he made himself consider the possibility, there was something about Mihhaelo that informed Wynn he did not fit into that category, and never would.

Thinking back to their initial meeting and Mihhaelo’s touching reaction to being called ‘gorgeous’, which could so easily have been anger rather than a shy delight, and everything that it signified, Wynn wanted to ensure there was no misunderstandings between them, and so to dispel any tension that might hang over the meal and thus ruin it, he spoke in a tone that was more serious than his usual light-hearted self.

“Just so we’re clear…” Wynn stopped, both because he felt sordid actually formalising and so describing their situation, and because of the boy’s suddenly downcast gaze.

“You want me,” Mihhaelo’s reply was spoken in a way that in anyone else would have contained the monotone resignation of long experience or the simmering fury of a newly broken spirit still unable to accept its fate, but in this case was actually made more poignant and therefore worse by being an unquestioning acceptance of something inevitable.

Lying was not in Wynn’s nature and would achieve nothing, in fact it might only aggravate the situation if the boy had read his reactions correctly, so he acknowledged his desire, the sooner to dismiss it.

“From the moment I saw you,” he admitted, “but it’s important you understand that I’m buying a meal for you, not buying you with the meal; we’ll keep one another company for an hour or so, and then go our separate ways. I’m not picking you up for the night, and you’ll owe me nothing later. Unless you want to split the bill?” he quipped, and then wished he had kept his mouth shut as Mihhaelo almost choked on a sob.

As with his previous reactions, this also told of both anguish and a yearning for hope, and though Wynn had recently wondered if everything was an elaborate charade in which the boy played at being vulnerable and thus sought attention in the same way that a dog used emotional blackmail on its owner, he felt that Mihhaelo was not being cynically manipulative, rather he was genuinely stripped down to his raw emotions which could not be hidden, but what could possibly have driven him to such an exposed and weakened state?

“Here it is,” said Wynn as they reached the brasserie a few moments later, and as he had been promised, at that time of the evening it was not too busy to preclude relaxed conversation and healthy breathing, as well as offering a wide range of foods.

Even as they crossed the threshold a waiter approached and led them to a square table for two near the front, where they could either turn one way to watch the locals and tourists wandering past, or to see the small bar set back in the building, then the waiter, having already appraised and determined to politely ignore the condition of Mihhaelo’s attire, as despite its tatty state it was still clean and well looked-after, offered them a professionally neutral invitation then returned with two bottles of water for the glasses, and a pair of menus, before leaving them again so they could decide what to order.

Wynn could see only too well how nervous Mihhaelo was, and wondered if he should again reassure the boy of his honourable intensions, or would such repetition only begin to sound hollow and therefore have the opposite effect to that intended?

Noticing that Mihhaelo had sat right down and was still holding his little carpet-bag, Wynn said, “You’d better take off your coat, otherwise it will only get creased. I doubt you’ll need it until later, anyway, it’s still warm out; that’s why coming here at this time of year is so nice, and the fact that the main tourist rush is over.”

The boy almost knocked over his chair as he stood up, but the awkwardness was due entirely to a weariness that told of sheer exhaustion instead of further melancholy, though there was also an understandable anxiety rather than an inherent lack of grace as he draped his coat over the back of the chair and sat down again, this time placing his bag on the floor by his feet.

How on earth had he managed to survive? And yet, he obviously wanted to, as he also wished to keep himself in as good a condition as possible, having availed himself of the bathroom’s facilities, so perhaps that was how he looked after himself, furtively moving between hotels to avoid detection, and though he was understandably nervous and his words occasionally hesitant, his behaviour indicated an overall education that at least matched Wynn’s own.

With no previous experience of such a unique situation to guide him, Wynn knew the last thing he could do was enquire into Mihhaelo’s own position without seeming intrusive, so he began with something general, no matter it was incredibly banal.

“Have you been here long?” he asked. “Paris, I mean.”

“A couple of weeks,” Mihhaelo’s reply was not at all surly, as it might have been had he been expected to speak of himself to a complete stranger, in unfamiliar circumstances.

“What would you like to eat?”

“I don’t…” the boy faltered, “I can’t…”

Trying to save Mihhaelo’s embarrassment at not being able to read the menu, which unlike most of those in nearby restaurants did not have a smaller translation in English to cater for passing tourists, Wynn said, “If you let me know what you want, I’ll see if they have it. They have a very good selection, actually, but are you a vegetarian?”

Although remaining silent, the quick glance of Mihhaelo’s upraised eyes as he shook his head in response to the query easily communicated his gratitude at not being made to seem foolish. “An omelette,” he said, “nothing too big.”

“Are you sure?” Wynn was doubtful of such a light meal’s value to someone who may not have eaten properly for a few days.

“I don’t need much,” Mihhaelo sounded as though he was making an excuse, but not for his choice of meal, rather his mere existence, as if he was going out of his way to remain unnoticed.

“Even so,” Wynn’s concern was evident. “A few Euros here or there won’t matter, and as I said earlier, I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t meant it.”

“Stop doing that,” Mihhaelo’s voice went suddenly and inexplicably low, simmering with hostility.

Wynn was genuinely at a loss to know what was wrong, “Doing what?”

“Treating me like some kind of fragile doll!” The exclamation was subdued so as not to draw notice from the other diners, but there was no denying the strength behind his protest, then his words fractured even further as anger clashed with self-doubt. “Do you think I’ve only been like this since I got here? I’ve been doing it for months. What would you know about being ripped apart by everything you’ve ever known and waking up every morning wondering if you should even be alive or not?”

“More than you might think,” Wynn’s tone was placatory as his hand rose to the neck of his shirt, then fell again as the waiter returned. “Have you decided?” he enquired of Mihhaelo, who only shook his head, so Wynn ordered spaghetti bolognaise, a tuna pasta for himself, with two side-salads and a local burgundy.

“Just stop trying to be my friend,” Mihhaelo said once the waiter had brought and opened the wine for them.

Wynn slid his finger under the fine gold chain around his neck and lifted up the small ruby cross that was kept beneath his shirt. “I was raised a Catholic, more accurately indoctrinated as one, and it was something my parents never stopped hammering into me. When I was about fourteen, after a year and more of self-loathing and sheet-drenching nightmares of burning in hell for eternity, I finally admitted to myself that I had a raging crush on a boy in the year above me at school and that I was gay… so yes, whilst I’ve never been homeless I do know a bit, and let’s just say that when I had my first little fling a month or so later and realised I loved it, it wasn’t the best thing I could have told my parents. In fact, it would have been far better if I hadn’t, but I couldn’t lie to myself any longer, and I still had the mistaken belief they loved me.”

Wynn raised the cross to his lips in an unselfconscious motion before returning it against his skin and continuing, “The point is, though, that even your own parents are basically just other people, and if there’s nothing to keep you together, or in my case there was more than enough driving you apart, then you leave, especially if you have friends who want to help. For the first few weeks after I walked out I was guilty about not feeling guilty, though I was no longer torn inside about actually being gay because by then I was with Peter, and I realised I had no reason to be guilty because it wasn’t my fault they behaved as they did, so if they felt betrayed then they couldn’t really have loved me for my own self, only what they wanted me to be as a reflection or continuation of themselves. I know I was messed up for a while, but how screwed-up is that?”

“But you’re still…?” Mihhaelo asked hesitantly, all his anger receded as he waved his fork in the general direction of Wynn’s chest.

“Oh, yes. My parents may not want me and the Pope certainly wishes I’d just vanish even as he covers up for the real perverts who molest under-age children and make some people assume we’re all like that, but God made me, and He wants me to be happy, so I figured he doesn’t need intermediaries. I admit I still love going to Mass, but I’m not racked by guilt if I miss one because no matter what it signifies, it’s still a system made by people. In any case, I’ve recently discovered it’s based on only one tradition, and much as I love the Bible I know it’s a collection of witnesses’ accounts and revealed stories, made by those who genuinely believed what they wrote, but very soon afterwards everything was censored before being put together into a supposedly perfect book by those in power who only wanted to advance their own agenda. Why should Revelation be accepted but not Enoch, or the Gospels of Mary Magdalene and Thomas be less ‘real’ than all the others? Sorry,” Wynn added, slightly embarrassed at his little rant, “I don’t usually go on like that.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Mihhaelo replied quietly. “I know you’re trying to be nice… you are being nice, but I don’t… I’m not used to this, all right?” His voice rose slightly in defiance, as if to pre-empt anyone challenging him.

Wynn laughed, “This is new to me, as well.”

“So why are you here? I don’t mean with me, that’s obvious, but Paris.”

“I’ve been here a few times before on holidays and just fell in love with the place, but I’m also studying Art History, and I’d spent most of the afternoon in the Musée du Moyen-Age before I came back and found you. It has absolutely incredible artwork and sculptures, and the tapestries are simply unbelievable.”

“I suppose it could be nice,” said Mihhaelo as if the thought had never occurred to him, but any further comment was withheld as their food arrived.

Mihhaelo stared at the plateful of succulent bolognaise for a moment, then with motions that only fractionally betrayed their underlying eagerness he picked up his cutlery and began twirling the spaghetti.

Wynn smiled to himself at the other boy’s enjoyment as he began his own dinner, for though their choices were not particularly original and certainly not typically French, it was their preparation and cooking that made them what they were, and which other city could boast so many streets lined not with blandly uniform chains selling the same lines of junk ‘food’ but countless and varied restaurants with nice meals at prices that were affordable even on his wages?

“Good?” Wynn prompted after the first minute or so of silence, though it had not been an uncomfortable period.

“Mmm,” the corners of Mihhaelo’s mouth rose slightly in the beginnings of what might have been a genuine smile, then he burped lightly. “You must think I’m some clumsy…” he began, but stopped abruptly as he placed the fork loaded with bolognaise into his mouth.

“No,” said Wynn, “I can see how you behave and hear how you talk, so I think I know precisely what kind of person you are. It’s hardly going to surprise you I know nothing about your lifestyle, even if it could be dignified with that word, but I’ve never heard anyone who’s tried living out of hotel rooms the way I assume you do. It shows you care. You know,” he added, “if this were a fantasy rather than real life, you’d be a fallen angel who had torn off his own wings so he could renounce the sterility of heaven and cavort with us mere mortals, only to discover we’d made a mess of things.”

Wynn smiled, but rather than take the flattery as had been intended, without any thought of it leading anywhere, Mihhaelo looked up as if he had been stung by the words, and his entire body lurched back in his chair.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Wynn instinctively reached across the table to take the other boy’s hand and comfort him, but Mihhaelo withdrew his arm so quickly he almost knocked over his glass of wine.

“I’m not an angel,” Mihhaelo spoke quietly, the simple words conveying further implications that he himself was a nobody, whilst another part was desperately fighting for some form of recognition, if only to preserve his own identity in a world that might generally ignore him. Then, without further prompting, and in an even softer tone that indicated he was speaking only to reassure himself rather than for Wynn’s benefit, he said, “It was just another a lie.”

“You really don’t like compliments, do you?” Wynn hoped he had pitched his reply correctly so as not to appear to be admonishing the boy or enquiring into what seemed to be a rather disturbed background.

“I don’t like any games.”

Wynn was suddenly very concerned, and he lowered his voice lest he be overheard, “Do you think that’s what this is, that I’m softening you up to get you into bed? I wasn’t lying before, and I’m not now. I don’t know what you’re expecting, but I wouldn’t do that, all right?”

“All I know is you still fancy me.”

Wynn sighed, as it seemed the other boy only wanted to have his suspicions confirmed, but having been twice assured he would not be taken advantage of, why was he so insistent? Mihhaelo was certainly not playing hard to get, and he had never once tried to flirt as he would have done so had he really wanted to go back to the hotel room later, so was his behaviour based on some need of recognition for himself as an individual or that someone wanted him no matter if it meant he was simply to be used like a sex-toy and then discarded after half an hour?

“Yes,” Wynn acknowledged, careful of his words, “I do, and without sounding immodest I know we could have a good time together, but that’s assuming you want me at all; I have more than enough experience to recognise a casual pick-up, and you’re not. Even assuming we were going to get together, I’d only make a move when I was sure you wanted it for yourself as well rather than simply because you knew I wanted to, otherwise it’s just…” Wynn shuddered at the prospect of forcing himself on a partner who was at best entirely passive, at worst completely unwilling, rather than simply taking the lead as he usually did now. “I could never just use you… what kind of person do you take me for? I’m not like that at all, and it’s rather pointless unless we both have fun it, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Mihhaelo asked, but whilst it was more than obvious he expected no answer, the underlying assumption was that he did not even know he was supposed to like it at all, let alone as well.

“You mean you’ve never…?” Wynn’s forehead creased momentarily in revulsion at the prospect of someone else not only exploiting Mihhaelo’s fragility, but also being so uninvolved as to not even enjoy their abuse, as if he were the very inanimate doll he had so recently accused Wynn of thinking him to be.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” the boy’s voice dropped again, and his fingers gripped the cutlery so hard that his knuckles paled slightly, but it was clear that such a reaction was Mihhaelo’s last means of protection, as it was also more than apparent even those defences were growing weaker.

“I don’t,” Wynn replied honestly, “but not in a nasty way. In fact, I admire your strength. I know I couldn’t survive the way you do.”

“Why do you…?” Mihhaelo bowed his head again, though the motion was due entirely to his exhaustion rather than to hide any burgeoning tears. “I don’t understand you.”

“And why can’t you just accept… what’s the phrase? ‘the kindness of strangers’? I’m just over half-way through a fortnight’s holiday in a city I adore, and if Miyu were here I’d be showing her around and enjoying her delight at everything as she experienced it for the first time, but as I’m here by myself why not try and share that a little bit? ‘Pass it on’, as the saying goes.”

Mihhaelo frowned, “Pass what on?”

“Happiness, luck, nice things. She’s been so kind to be recently, letting me move in with her, and now it’s my turn to try and do some good, even if it’s only for a few hours, for you.”

“You’re living with a girl?” Mihhaelo almost smirked.

“Two, actually. Yukiko is about seven and seems to be an orphan; she took Miyu as her adopted family almost like a cat deciding where to live, whilst Miyu herself is roughly your age, but she’s a friend who happens to be a girl, not my girlfriend; obviously.”

“And she doesn’t mind?”

“Mind what? Oh, I see. No, of course not; it’s as irrelevant as the colour of my eyes. She wouldn’t be my friend otherwise, would she? and it was her suggestion I move in when things with Peter fell apart.” Wynn took the final mouthful of wine from his glass, then refilled it and topped up the other one, which was still only half-empty. “Is it all right?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Mihhaelo was not unduly harsh, as it was clear he had no sense of wine. “Does it make you drunk quickly?”

“You do not have to get drunk, all right?” Wynn stated firmly. “In any case,” he added, “you’re supposed to enjoy it on its own terms, not use it as a means to an end.” Then he felt suddenly chill as he realised Mihhaelo might never have enjoyed anything at all, only experienced things without any involvement or, worse, simply endured them.

If all Mihhaelo had ever known was people taking advantage of and using him, or telling him how worthless he was, then he would forever be looking beyond the simplest of things to see the catch or trap; but, though in this case there was none, he was obviously having trouble believing it, and given what seemed to be an increasingly worsening condition in which he became physically weaker and even more emotionally exposed, for how much longer could he survive at all?

Wynn had been truthful in his admiration, for he had only left his parents knowing he could move in with Peter, and despite his extreme vulnerability Mihhaelo seemed to be doing everything he could to maintain a decent level of existence, but he was merely surviving rather than living, and only slowing an inevitable decent.

Mihhaelo should be going out with friends and enjoying himself, or travelling and experiencing what life was really all about… Wynn stopped himself from following that train of thought to its conclusion, for he had only met the boy less than a couple of hours ago and really knew nothing about him beyond the obvious, and in any case Wynn himself was not ready for another partner so soon after the break-up of his first relationship.

Wynn shrugged nonchalantly, “If you’d rather have a beer or something?”

“It’s fine, really,” Mihhaelo’s voice contained an unspoken apology. “I can’t stand the stuff; beer, I mean; or lager.”

“Neither can I; I didn’t used to mind the occasional glass of cider, but when I tasted the real thing I was almost sick. We have a small selection of drinks at home, but they’re mainly liqueurs. I tend to stick with wine; and coffee, of course.”

“Black, and strong, and not too much sugar, so it’s almost like liquid chocolate; and then that warm buzz when the caffeine hits.”

“Exactly,” Wynn smiled, and his heart almost missed a beat as his gaze locked with Mihhaelo’s dreamy turquoise eyes, which for the first time seemed alive with the moment rather than sadly reflecting his past.

Mihhaelo’s eyes widened as the contact remained for an instant longer than was polite between strangers, then he blinked quickly to sever the link, and when he raised his head he looked straight past Wynn to the back of the restaurant.

“That was nice, thanks,” Mihhaelo’s voice was almost flat again as he laid his cutlery on the empty plate, not to belie his comment but to deny any possibility of establishing another fleeting connection.

“Yes, it was,” Wynn replied, for that was the first time the other boy had ever tried explaining himself, and the fact he had meant he did not want to be misunderstood, but had he dared to actually enjoy himself even if it was only for a short while? Wynn knew perfectly well Mihhaelo would never admit to it if asked, and that in normal circumstances the ordering of coffee would lead to a reiteration of their common liking, but in this case Mihhaelo would only distance himself further, so Wynn simply slid the uppermost of their menus across the table, “Dessert?”

“Just some cake,” the reply was not churlish.

Wynn ordered Black Forest gateau, a crème caramel for himself, with two espressos, and he enjoyed the syrupy texture of his dessert as he watched Mihhaelo consume his own sweet in a series of efficient slices. “That went down well,” he smiled as he put sugar into his coffee and took a mouthful.

“I like chocolate,” Mihhaelo replied. “The good stuff, though, not the junk they put on sweets back home.”

“Miyu’s a bit of a chocoholic, too; she loves leaving it to melt it in her mouth whilst sipping Tia Maria.”

“You seem to have nice friends,” Mihhaelo’s comment bordered on wistful.

“I try to have nice everything,” Wynn laughed quietly, “but as for my friends, well, they wouldn’t be my friends if we didn’t like each other.”

“I meant the way you talk about them,” Mihhaelo explained before lowering his gaze again.

“Oh, life would be so depressing, otherwise. There’s only so much you can get from books and films; it’s other people that really make life worth living.”

“I suppose so,” Mihhaelo’s tone made it clear he was unconvinced. “It’s other people who always do things, too.”

“Not everyone wants to hurt you,” Wynn tried to reassure the other boy. “I don’t mean you specifically, but in general. If you don’t want anything else, I’ll get the bill?”

“No, thanks, and… thanks, for everything,” though still very tired, Mihhaelo’s voice easily conveyed his sincerity. “I know I’ve not been very good company, but this was…”

“Stop apologising,” Wynn chided as gently as he could, then attracted a waiter’s attention. “I’m going to have a gentle stroll back to the hotel, so I’ll walk you to the corner.”

“And then?”

“Then we say good-bye, and I have a nice long sleep,” Wynn replied, but then, realising what he had said, added, “Sorry, I’m not usually that tactless, but I’m just trying to let you know I’m not going back on my word, so that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about. Do you have anywhere to go?”

“I’ll find a place,” Mihhaelo stood up slowly, having sat for so long in one position, then he turned to wrap his coat around his shoulders and picked up his bag as Wynn paid the bill and left most of his change for the tip. “There are plenty if you know where to look,” Mihhaelo continued once they were outside and walking back the way they had come, “but it’s best to keep moving around. Oops,” he burped loudly, then leaned forward slightly, his free hand moving to press against his stomach.

“Some people think belching is a sign of good food,” Wynn smiled.

“Probably just some wind, I don’t usually talk much during a meal.”

“As long as you enjoyed it,” Wynn slowed as they reached the junction. “My hotel’s this way,” he indicated the wide street on their right, “but if you carry straight on you’ll soon come to the Fontaine De L’Observatoire, and at the far end of that is the Palais Du Luxembourg. If you go in the evening when the sun’s setting, it’s lovely.”

“Everything is if you can afford it,” Mihhaelo replied, his voice suddenly slurred as he almost tripped over his own feet, but as he had consumed less than two glasses of wine with his meal it was hardly likely he was drunk, and if he was unusually susceptible to alcohol why had he not mentioned it, or had he tried to numb himself against what he saw as an inevitable liaison?

“Shit, I feel awful,” Mihhaelo shuddered violently, almost dropping his bag, and so poor was his condition that although he flinched as Wynn placed one arm around his shoulders, he did not shrug off the action that was solely for physical support.

“You look as if you’re going to throw up,” said Wynn. “I think you’d better come back and rest for a while.” Realising what he had just said, Wynn looked at Mihhaelo for any objection, but the other boy simply clutched his belly and stifled the rising urge to retch.

“What a surprise.”

Wynn easily dismissed the understandable suspicion, “You will be surprised, believe me, but not in the way you think.” Then he added, though more to verbalise his own thoughts than as an unnecessary commentary, “I don’t believe I’m doing this.”

They managed to reach the hotel without an accident, quickly passing through reception to reach the small lift next to the lounge, but by the time they reached the top floor Mihhaelo’s condition had worsened to the point where he was shuddering uncontrollably, and as soon as the door was unlocked he stumbled through to the bathroom and vomited in the lavatory, grasping the bowl as spasms racked his body and his skin visibly paled for a few seconds.

Mihhaelo moved weakly to pull off sheets of toilet-paper with which to wipe his mouth and the few splashes he had left on the rim, but he was too faint to stand without risk of losing his balance, so he remained on the floor, breathing hoarsely and wincing as he swallowed the bitter taste.

Wynn squatted beside him, “I know it’s not very nice, but it’s probably a good thing you got rid of it all so quickly. I just hope it’s not anything serious like gastro-enteritis.”

“Mmm,” the other boy barely had time to nod in agreement before he vomited again, though only a small amount this time.

“Here,” Wynn held out a plastic cup which he had filled from the bottle of mineral water in his bag rather than the sink, “sip slowly, don’t gulp it.” He opened the window to clear the acrid scent, then pulled down a blanket from the narrow cupboard outside, “Get undressed and wrap yourself up in this, you don’t want to risk getting your things soiled, and they are rather nice.” Wynn saw no reason to point out they were also the only clothes he possessed, which made their care even more important.

Mihhaelo’s body shook so violently he could barely speak, “One t-track m-m-mind.”

“You’re the one who keeps going on about it,” said Wynn with only a hint of sarcasm, but he left the bathroom to give the boy some privacy and closed the door as he had always intended doing.

A minute later, the door opened again to reveal Mihhaelo leaning against the jamb, his breathing ragged as he clutched the blanket around his trembling body, and he made no protest as Wynn guided him to the side of the bed nearest the door and laid him beneath the duvet, resting his head on a pillow and placing the waste-paper bin next to the bed in case it was needed.

“Well, this is different,” Wynn smiled as he took off his shoes. “Is there anything you want? From your bag, I mean,” he indicated the bathroom. “Otherwise I think it’s best if you just try and rest, and drink as much as you can. At least you’ve got some of your colour back, you were as white as a sheet before.”

“Regular Mother Teresa,” Mihhaelo groaned into the pillow.

“No,” Wynn replied, “I’ve never thought suffering was a good thing.” He sighed, “Look, I know this isn’t what you want, but we’re stuck with it for the moment. I’ll make sure you settle, so I’ll be here if you need anything, but I need to get some sleep; I’m exhausted.”

“Here?” Mihhaelo asked faintly.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor of my own room,” said Wynn, “and you’re in no state to even if you wanted. In any case, the bed’s almost wide enough for three people.”

Mihhaelo was too weak to do anything other than groan in response, and he said nothing as Wynn took off his shirt and trousers but kept on his boxer-shorts, draping his clothes over the back of the chair, then he crumpled the duvet to make a ridge along the bed to act as a formal barrier between them before sliding beneath the cover and trying not to fall straight asleep.