The rest of the night was a blur of passion and emotion, exacerbated by how light-headed Jonathan was.

In retrospect, he remembered flashes, moments. He was on top of Alphonse, hands roaming his pale chest, warm with his own blood. Next, he was on his side, behind Alphonse, tracing lines on his back with one finger.

It came to a point in the night where he couldn’t tell what was real and what he dreamt, or who had done what to whom. All he knew was that it was ...