I've been watching him since he fell asleep – or at least, closed his eyes. This is partly because I'm intrigued by the way he refused to look at me, and partly because I'm unable to sleep. This is because I've never slept in only a shirt before (or ever had clothes just for sleeping in), and also because of the way I'm tied to the pallet: my spine's twisted, the handcuffs digging into my wrist.

I hurt.

The way he looked at me just before he fell asleep, just a fleeting glance, made me wonder… does he share my sin? Is he as much of a monster as I am? Is he doomed for the same circle of Hell as I?

He is so beautiful as he sleeps. So beautiful.

I try to go to sleep. It doesn't work. The metal digs into my arms, and the wood of the pallet into my back. I end up just watching Lord Libran.

And then he begins to dream.

About me – or at least, that's the name which flows from his lips as he writhes and twists, sweat tracing his brow – and not the sweat of a hard day's work, a thing I don't doubt he's never felt.

I could almost smirk.

So he is another sodomite.

He is as evil as me, for that.

There is something so arousing about watching him dream like that, whisper my name, so vivid I can almost see myself there with him… And when he finishes I'm desperate to touch myself, to feel the same – but I can't. Not only physically can't reach, but also I don't want to explain it in the morning; because I don't want to have to talk about that to strangers. So I'm left feeling painfully aroused, trying to calm myself down.

So when he suddenly looks at me after that final scream, that last call of my name, I can tell he's awake – and I could almost pity him, because he's embarrassed, too.

We just watch each other for a long time. He's far more uncomfortable than me. I've shared a bed with three brothers. I'm comfortable with this kind of thing. It happens. And it's alright – even if you're dreaming of men.

Well, the pleasure-reaching is alright. The dreaming of men, however, is evil and a sin – but I am sure I am going to Hell anyway, though I still pray to God.

"Shall I fetch you some water, my Lord?" I say finally, struggling not to grin. "So you can wash yourself?"

He's blushing as he glares at me. "How… how dare you, slave!" he shouts finally, quickly pulling the covers more over himself. "How dare you!"

I stare at him steadily. "Sorry, my Lord," I say with the most insincerity I can –which is a lot. "Then… could you please loosen my handcuffs, my Lord? I cannot sleep… they are too tight…" I smile in what I hope is an encouraging way.

He just glares at me. He might be nearly crying. I can't tell from this far away.

"You do not deserve my pity or my help," he says finally. "All the better for you if you do not sleep."

I hiss gently, keeping my eyes on him. How can he be so selfish, when he's got his pleasure from dreaming of me, to deny me any rest? He can never have felt so uncomfortable as this! I shift against the metal lump which now presses against my stomach.

I can't help but notice that my Lord watches the move all too carefully. He's still sweaty and blushing, his hair's messed up, and the way he clutches the covers about his groin is all too obvious of the cause of his discomfort.

"You don't deserve it," he says again as if reassuring himself more than me.

I'm beginning to think he shouldn't let me up after all.

If he does I might end up kissing him whether he wants it or not.

But he is wrapping the covers about him like he's going to move…