door.”

“The messy one?” she whispered. I nodded at her, pleased she was concentrating so much. These

games were obviously good for her.

“That’s my girl,” I praised. “Now, hurry. They’ll be coming upstairs soon.”

Rebecca let out a giggle of delight, then bounded up the stairs. With her occupied, I was able to

project myself up, to the exact place in the building Ginger was; the kitchen.

The staff had a room set aside as their lounge, but Ginger spent a lot of time in the kitchen. The

room was spacious, even with the battered dining table and chairs taking up half of it. The kitchen felt

very central in the building. It was the same place the officer’s mess had been once, and it still carried

that strong aura.

Ginger lounged in his chair, a chilled bottle of beer held in his hand. He absently stared at the

flickering box at the other end of the table – the television – but I could see him keeping one eye on

his cousin, also sitting at the table. Fizz had no doubt been extracted from his room and fetched here

to eat his supper. It was late, but they all kept late hours due to the bar downstairs. Fizz hunched over

his plate, pushing the food around with his fork. I could feel the displeasure emanating from him, the

self-loathing and wretchedness growing.

Nothing at all like he’d felt when the lovely Ash had brought him that bizarre drink. It was almost

as romantic as bringing him a bouquet, I thought. Very modern. Fizz hadn’t had a chance to feel guilty

about the interaction then, not while I was there. Perhaps I was more of an influence over him that I

realised.

I swept around the table, standing behind Fizz. Laying my hands at the base of his spine, I tickled

my fingers up its length. He shuddered suddenly, hissing a breath in through his teeth.

Ginger looked at him. “You all right?”

Fizz shivered again, but nodded.

“Are you cold?” Ginger was up off his seat. “I’ll get you a jumper.”

“No,” Fizz said quietly. “I’m fine, really.”

Ginger smacked his beer onto the table with unexpected force, glaring down at Fizz. “Well, you’re

not fine, are you? Because nobody your age stays in every single day of their bloody lives. You need

to get out, Jamie.”

Fizz curled in on himself, hunching over. “No, no, please. I don’t– I –” The tears welled up. He

squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to stop them, and covered his mouth with his hands. “I’m sorry,”

he said, voice hitching. The sobs were but a breath away.

Ginger sighed, visibly deflating. “Jamie, you don’t have to be sorry, for God’s sake. Quit saying

sorry all the time. I just want you to have a life, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Fizz sobbed out. The tears rolled off his cheeks and dropped into his barely touched

dinner. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop being sorry.” Ginger crouched beside him, rubbing his back. Still behind Fizz, I held my

hands out and closed my eyes. The energy from both of them was brimming with nerves and despair.

So, so strong.

“Look...” Ginger sighed. “If I make you an appointment at the doctor, will you go?”

Fizz looked up at him, clearly distraught at the suggestion. “No!”

“Or we can have one visit you here?” Ginger said. “You won’t even have to leave –”

“No, please, I can’t! It doesn’t help, they don’t do anything.”

“But you’ve had meds before. I talked to your mum, she said you should be taking them every day.”

“Pills don’t help.” Fizz sobbed again. “All they want me to do is take pills, but they don’t work. I

don’t want to be forced into meds again, please!”

“Okay, okay,” Ginger soothed. “You don’t have to do anything right now, all I’m saying is –”

“Please can I go to my room now?” Fizz interrupted. The tears streamed down his face.

“Jamie, you need to –”

“Please, Daniel.”

That little voice was so small, so pathetic. Ginger obviously realised there would be no conclusion

drawn tonight. “All right,” he said, standing up. “But we’re not done talking about this.”

Fizz stood, then hurried from the room, desperate to escape. Ginger found his packet of cigarettes,

pulled one out and lit it. The first exhale of smoke became a long sigh. He muttered under his breath,

“How am I supposed to deal with this?”

“You okay?”

At the voice, Ginger turned to see Ryan standing in the doorway. He drew in a sharp breath,

obviously trying to right himself. “Yeah,” he said tightly. “Yeah, fine.”

Ryan hesitated. Unspoken questions burned in him, until one finally bubbled to the surface. “I...I’ve

got something stronger,” he offered, gesturing with his eyes at Ginger’s beer. “It’s in my room, if you

fancy a drink.” The invitation was made. Ryan was already tipsy, and still keyed up from playing his

guitar earlier. His face was faintly flushed, those freckled cheeks tinged soft pink. His eyes were

bright as he stared at Ginger, waiting for a response.

Oh, the way this boy looked at him sent shivers down me.

This time, it was Ginger who hesitated. He seemed to hear Ryan’s question, hear it for what it could

mean, but he brushed it aside. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. He went to a cupboard, rifling through it.

“Got some whiskey to finish.”

Disappointment nearly crushed Ryan but, admirably, he didn’t let it show. Ginger took two glasses,

filled them with whiskey and placed one at an empty seat. It wasn’t quite what Ryan had been hoping

for, but he wasn’t about to turn it down. He moved into the room and asked, “Ice?”

“Sure.”

“There’s some ginger beer in the fridge if you want me to top it?”

“Okay.”

I watched these two, listening to their voices. How reserved they seemed, how guarded. Their

normal bond, comfortable in its familiarity, was close to breaking. A new energy was attempting to

rise. I could feel the tension in both of them, coiled tight beneath the surface and ready to spring. They

sat at the table and drank quietly, staring at the flickering box. I stood between them, absorbing the

energy they created from being so close to each other.

Strong, potent and addictive.

Something was about to change, I could feel it. Their energy was aligning, each one desperate to

match the other’s. This was it. Ryan’s muddled mind began to stir. It begged to ask the questions his

sober self would never dare utter. He was close, so close to voicing his feelings. If he did that,

everything would change. I realised this was their natural course; these two were meant to be together.

But if that happened then their energy would soon settle, even out. One of my strongest sources of

energy would be gone, and I couldn’t have that.

Bending low, I whispered in Ryan’s ear, “Not yet, my dear.” He sat up straight. Absent fingers

brushed at his ear, searching for the source of whatever tickle he must have felt. Smiling to myself, I

whispered in his other ear. “Go to bed now. Alone.”

Drunk men were so easy to manipulate. Ryan blinked, then got to his feet. “Guess I’ll...go to bed.”

Ginger tried hard not to look at him. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Ryan hovered a moment longer, looking down at Ginger, who stared ahead at the

television. Another sigh, and Ryan moved off, slightly unsteady on his feet.

Ginger frowned, although Ryan didn’t see it. Disappointment washed through the man, along with a

surge of baffled confusion. As Ryan reached the door, Ginger said, “Ryan?”

Eager to stop, all too willing to rush back to the man at the table, Ryan stopped and whipped

around.

“Yes?”

“Um...” Ginger stared at him as Ryan stared back. The waves of sexual tension rolled and crashed