Masquerade balls, Einar knew, were places of glory and quite a lot of dancing. He had seen Eden dance, for she was the taller and stronger of them, had even tied her hair into elaborate swirls for a particularly important event. His hands, small compared to hers, were only good for twisting strands and paintbrushes.

He was not at the ball to dance.

The canvas before him had been primed beforehand by none other than Eden herself. She always primed his canvases, and nailed the material down to the wooden frame. He could not handle a staple gun without stumbling from the recoil. The canvas held nothing but Eden so far, painted every so often in the different places she would end up. Eden danced with herself across his art, her eyes covered by the jewelled mask he had made himself.

Last night, while he had placed the last of the rhinestones against the smooth painted surface, she had shown him her routine. Graceful steps, tuned to music he could not hear. Whether the song was smooth or loud he did not know, hearing nothing but his heartbeat and the occasional gunshot. There weren’t a lot of gunshots in their world of aristocrats and champagne, but when there were, everyone heard them. Einar had learned to paint the scene without the sound.

His brush hovered over Eden’s hair.

His twin had always been the stronger of them. Einar, born with silence and profound weakness, had watched her dancing lessons with a keen eye and noted down the steps. Trying them later, he would fall, so light with his hollow bones that she could lift him even back then. She always did his hair the way he did hers – pretty, like a proper lady. He was not a lady. He gave that title up when he was only seventeen, when hands had touched and he had bitten.

No more was he Eindis. He wore a corset to hide himself beneath loose shirts and looser pants, and few could recall the delicate lady he had been. Only Eden fully remembered.

His hair, light in colour and long in style, had been pinned up to keep it out of his paints. He leaned closer, capturing the red of Eden’s lips, the twirl of her gown around her. He had repaired a tear in that gown only yesterday. The slight dusting of eyeshadow across her eyelids was rendered with a tiny brush laden with white.

She had brushed the same glitter across his own eyelids, a small swipe on his cheekbones, demanding that he at least shine below the ballroom lights if he would not dance beneath them.

Marking a shining point on the hem of her dress, he leaned in.

A hand rested on his shoulder. At first, he barely comprehended it, focused on rendering Eden’s arms raised high as she spun. The warm pressure was just a fact of life. Fingers touched the edge of his mind, making him aware that not only did someone have their hand on his shoulder, they were also leaning so close that he could probably bite them.

He jerked back, leaving a stream of crimson across the canvas, the sturdy end of his brush connecting with yielding flesh. He imagined a cry, a curse, something unfitting, as Eden stopped her dancing to look right at him.

Dabbing at the streak of red, he felt the tears that had been pooling in his eyes slip down to his cheeks, leaving shiny trails like snails.

Eden and her mask came to stand beside him, locked in conversation with the vaguely human silhouette that startled him. He focused on the red, guiding it to look like the ruffled skirt of Eden’s dress, caught halfway between a twirl and a fall. Eden had never fallen in front of him, but he assumed it had happened before.

A hand rested itself on his shoulder again, this time belonging to her. Green eyes peered at him from behind a red mask. Feathers brushed her temples.

Are you alright?

Fine. He made a face when he signed the word. He was fine, but his painting was not. The streak still looked like something unwanted.

The man standing beside her was tall and dark skinned and profoundly warm. His eyes fixed on Einar’s face, roaming downwards to the lines of his corset just visible below the shirt, then back up. Einar set his jaw, made the most annoyed expression he can manage, and signed, don’t ever do that again.

I’ll keep that in mind. The man’s smile was soft, like blended paint.

Only 22, Einar knew little about his own heart, and even less about the hearts of others. But the tiny tug in his chest was enough to propel him forwards, to take the man’s hand into his and to sign, so small, my name is Einar.

There were days, Einar knew, when it was impossible to really breathe with his corset cinched as tight as he usually wore it. It sat a little looser on those days, but still tighter than Eden did hers. Since it was not to be seen, he had fan laced it, disliking the pattern but greatly appreciating the ease at which it allowed him to get dressed. Most young men did not spend as much time dressing as he did. That wasn’t his fault. Surely.

Besides, Charis surely didn’t mind.

Eden did Einar’s hair because he couldn’t reach all the way back once he was already dressed. She pulled gently at the strands, twisting them into a simple braid, sliding jewelled pins into the curls. The braid fell to his waist and gleamed in the light.

I don’t look like a girl? he asked, looking at himself in the mirror while she painted glitter onto his eyelids. Eden smiled, dusting the soft brush against skin.

You look like Einar.

A decisive nod. He was happy with that. Eden styled the few short strands framing his face in wisps of gold, then shoved him out the door.

Charis was waiting. Einar remembered the hand on his shoulder and found himself wishing for that touch again.

Dear god, Charis signed, you look amazing, Einar. He accompanied the words with that same blended paint smile as before. Einar returned it with his own glitter dusted one.

Thank you.

Charis’ eyes wandered, down his neck, down the line of his nose, down his narrow shoulders. They lingered where the bulge of Einar’s chest was slightly more visible without the corset as deathly tight as it usually was. Einar flinched, turning slightly away, his hands coming up and resting weakly against the boning of his corset.

Charis tapped his shoulder once, very gently, and waited until Einar turned back on his own.

I’m sorry. I just thought you had nice embroidery, across your shirt.

It was true, though. Einar had stitched those strawberries himself, with red threads that shone with the remnants of the eyeshadow Eden always wore. They were stark against the bleached white of his shirt, and Charis’ hand skirted them gently, a fingertip just brushing the fabric.

Einar trembled minutely, remembering the unwanted touches, the hands that seemed determined to grab fistfuls of his flesh and rip them away. Charis withdrew his hand.

I won’t touch you there if you don’t want me to. I won’t even look. I promise.

Einar believed him.

When Einar was five, he had seen two pretty men kiss in the park. One of them was tall and lifted the other gently up in his arms, and their silk shirts tangled together. Einar had watched their lips and decided that was what he wanted out of life.

But back then, he had still been Eindis, and he had not known what it meant to see himself in such a relationship.

Little girls, his father called them, and Einar remembered his hands, large and strong when they lifted him to his shoulder. His father, though sometimes still introduced him as a daughter, had loved his son from the very beginning. He had always known. It had been their mother who had refused to speak to him after he started hiding his chest beneath suffocation.

Charis played the piano in the restaurant they went to. Einar, seated back at their table, watched his fingers dancing and counted the beats.

One, two, three, four.

He never understood classical music. It was not his domain. But Charis looked so happy, so Einar resolved to count the beats until he was done.

Charis’ hands were gentle when they rested on Einar’s waist, tracing the boning of the corset beneath his shirt, the smooth dip of his flesh. Einar reached up, his fingertip brushing Charis’ jaw, drawing him downwards.

The kiss was short and soft and sweet, and Einar saw a flush creep through Charis’ skin, reddening the tips of his ears beneath a head of wavy hair. Einar rested his head against his shoulder, trying to listen for the heartbeat he could feel against his skin.

Charis’ hands stilled, then slid up from his waist to his back, cradling Einar against his chest.

You can touch, Einar signed, looking up to meet those chocolate eyes. I don’t care. You can touch wherever you want. To prove it, he brought Charis’ hand to his chest, where the top of the corset was, where the body of a woman was apparent. Charis blinked down at him, his touch hesitant.

Only if you want me to.

Einar smiled.

Later, in his room, Einar stepped out of his corset and flopped down on his bed, hearing the relentless pound of his heart deep inside his ribcage. Charis’ hands were still ghosting against his skin, the phantom press of his lips still apparent against Einar’s own.

Only 22, Einar knew little about his own heart, and most of what he did know was anatomy. He knew it was oddly shaped. He knew it had tubes.

He didn’t know it could race this hard under the touch of one single man.

Five year old Eindis had finally become the gently kissed man she had watched in the park. 22 year old Einar had made sure of it.