Obscure

Chapter 2

Kirill

Kirill and Camille woke slowly together, crawling toward consciousness inch by cozy inch. They tugged each other unwillingly upward toward the lazy Saturday morning waiting for them. Kirill surfaced from dreams of fire. He gratefully emerged into the softness of her vanilla-scented hair against his nose and the arm she had draped possessively over his chest in her sleep.

Soft cotton sheets draped over the two of them like a lighter caress. They smelled like fresh laundry. Kirill eased his eyes open a little at a time. The first thing he saw was Camille's expanse of long blond hair. Then, beyond her, the ferns he had brought a few weeks ago.

The ferns hadn't died yet. Sunlight lay across their leaves in stripes formed by the Venetian blinds. The fronds drifted back and forth in the breeze from the air-conditioning vent. Like Kirill and Camille, they looked in no hurry to move fast on this long, lazy morning.

Camille opened her eyes with a groan that was half happiness, half reluctance. She blinked up at him and smiled. "I never knew your apartment was so comfortable," she said, her voice thick with a half-asleep haze. The warm notes thrummed in his bones, threatening to send him drifting off again.

He smiled at her and tapped the tip of her nose. "It's not like this is the first time you've seen it."

"No, but it's the first time I've stayed over," she said. "And I wasn't really paying attention last night." She gave him a teasing grin. Then the grin turned into a soft smile of pure pleasure. She flopped off him, onto her back, and moved her arms up and down like she was making snow angels. "It's so... soft," she said, with the tone in her voice that people normally reserved for a beautiful sunset or a sublime bowl of ice cream.

"What can I say?" he said, making a couple of snow angels of his own. "I like soft and comfortable." And for now, that was true, because that was what Camille liked, and he liked Camille. Loved her, even—if love was the word for discovering someone whose company could fill the hole inside you for a few blissful months.

The silky sheets were as new as the ferns. The ferns had come after he had visited Camille's apartment and seen the explosion of greenery she kept there. He had asked her what kind of plant she liked best. She had said ferns.

It wasn't manipulation. Not in anything but the most benign sense. He wasn't trying to get anything more from her than she already wanted to give. Someday, maybe six or twelve months from now, they would be done with each other, with no hard feelings on either end. Kirill had long years of practice at keeping his breakups amicable. And when that day came, the soft sheets and the ferns would find their way to the trash bin outside.

But while she was here, he would give her what she liked. Because what he liked, more than any sheets or plants or long lazy mornings, was making her happy.

Her, or whoever took her place once she was gone.

"I'm going to make a pot of coffee," he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"No, don't leave," she said in a playful groan, grabbing his wrist.

He tensed without meaning to. The hand around his wrist felt like a cuff holding him down to a hospital bed. Back before they had known they could trust him. Back before he had shown them they could take him at his word.

Back when they hadn't known what effect their injections would have on him—and how dangerous he might be once the drugs did their work.

But that had been a long time ago. He had no need of old memories. Not his own, at least. And Camille's skin was soft as her finger traced the vein on the underside of his wrist. It was nothing like the cold metal of his memory.