"I feel strange, Fakir," Mytho says one night, jostling me from sleep. This isn't the first time.

"Go to sleep," I mutter, turning away to pull up the blankets past my face.

Mytho doesn't flinch. He is slowly becoming more troublesome and strange; no longer listening without a second thought or trusting infallibly. It's all that wretched girl's fault, that Tutu, that dunce, that

I slow down the violins in my chest one at a time, until the cellos quiet. Less Tchaikovsky and more Mozart. Not as short as Fur Elise, but not quite as dramatic as Moonlight Sonata. Mytho places a hand on my shoulder and the orchestra of emotions explodes with such noise that it makes my ears ring. Something like Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, full with cannons.

"I'm sorry to wake you," he says hoarsely. "But it's beginning to hurt and I don't know how to fix it." His voice is softer than any classical number. "Please tell me how to fix it, Fakir."

Mytho's simple request eats away at me. Anger swells in my stomach like a broken chord from an untuned instrument. The music tells a familiar story each time, like a dance where I've already memorized all the steps. These are the classical symphonies where I find refuge.

I wonder what it could possibly be. It's probably just Mytho becoming used to the loneliness that Tutu graciously bestowed upon him. I try sleeping again, but there's no chance with Mytho breathing unevenly from a few feet away.


I close my eyes and do a mental run through of my favorite tracks. La Nuit des Tropiques, Pathétique Gaíté Parisienne—anger builds anyway. Breathing deeply, I sit up and shove the sheets off of my body while the chorus swells.

The first thing I see when my eyes adjust to the darkness is Mytho's erection.

I struggle to remain non-pulsed, not because his nakedness is shocking, but because this is a dance we've practiced many times before. This, I know how to handle, and it has nothing to do with that Tutu or her wretched heart shards.

"Mytho, put some clothes on," I say evenly, but I can feel my pulse quickening with each overture.

"I'm wearing a shirt, Fakir," Mytho reminds me. I'm so caught up in taming my own soul that I don't hear Mytho's own song calling out to me.

"Please Fakir," Mytho ventures, voice piano-key easy. "It hurts."

I feel a pang of guilt but chide myself; Mytho is in no mortal danger. At times I find myself wondering if this is merely part of our act, a step in a dance that can't be avoided. His portrayal of faux innocence must always invite me first. Never the other way around.

"Please touch me," he requests again, gentle but insistent. "Please Fakir?"

My prince concedes in a broken voice, and wraps his fingers around his pale cock. The battle was over before it began. There is no innocence here. Mytho and I have perfected the Pas de Deux—a dance neither of us can perform without the other. I stand up and swallow, eyes flickering between his legs and snowflake white hair.

"Come here," I beckon.

When I grab Mytho's wrist to pull him closer, those careful notes turn to chaos inside me. He shudders at the contact, and I can feel my own pants tighten. I try to will it down because I want this to be about Mytho, about the way his body always bends to my will in bed. There is no place for Tutu here.

I begin with feather light touches, fingers trailing across the length of his erection. I pretend to be surprised when his hips stutter forward to meet my hand. We both know that it's all part of the choreography.

"Aah…! Fakir, it feels so..." Mytho doesn't get to finish. He never does.

This is the part of the story where the knight comes out on top, the part of the song where sounds ascend and feelings can't keep up. He thrusts shamelessly into my first when I tighten my grip. The word please falls from his mouth like a mantra, over and over until he's practically singing it.

In the beginning, Mytho didn't know what please, please, please actually meant. Had he achieved an orgasm before I touched him? Mytho begs again, so perfect that I resolve to settle into a rhythm he can shift his hips to. Mytho bucks against me when I slow down, demanding.

I stop abruptly when he tries to move my hand with his own, and the room goes silent. That wasn't part of our dance. Until now, Mytho's desire remained passive, something he was subject to rather than connected with.

"Mytho, lie on the bed," I tell him, voice cracking with apprehension. He doesn't move an inch.

This isn't part of our dance, but if Mytho thinks he can alter it on his own, then so can I. The music returns slowly-ominous-ebbing away at the prickly feeling behind my ears. Mytho moves at last, but not towards the bed. Instead he rotates his hips until his cock is resting on my leg. He bucks his hips impatiently forward, rubbing his rebellion in my face.

"Mytho!" I'm appalled at my own lack of self control when my cock twitches behind my pajamas. "I said, get on the bed!"

The room is silent as I struggle to remain in control. I don't have anything versed for these unscripted additions. Suddenly, I feel like throwing Mytho on the bed and slamming myself inside of him. It's a violent, intrusive thought that has never before occurred to me, but all at once, I feel consumed by it.

"I said on the bed!" Mytho flinches the time, and with a sharp pain in my own heart, I remember that he can feel fear. To think that the prince would fear the knight, his protector. I swallow.

"This is your fault," I say flatly, but I wonder whom I'm trying to convince.

I push him away from me and watch as he falls onto the bed. I feel like he's moving in slow motion while the heat between my legs becomes unbearable. I hover over him before I lose the nerve. Dance of the sugar plums plays for the first time, violating a place that was just perfect, until then.

"Say my name," I command with a squeeze. He moans beneath me. Perhaps a new dance is in order. We'll need lots of practice. "Say my name," I repeat.

He always says it. Fakir, Fakir, Fakir—he's usually saying it already. He says it because I tell him to, because I'm the one he thinks of when he feels longing, and because I'm the one he comes to in the middle of the night when his cock is hard. I'm the one who will protect him, and no one, not even Princess Tutu, can change that!

"Please," Mytho gasps, breathless.

The music swells with each upward stroke, unrestrained as my pace accelerates. Mytho arches his back, poised muscles propelling his body off the bed. He comes during the crescendo of the Flower Waltz with a desperate scream.At last, Mytho is still mine. He cries out again, spurting into my palm. The music stops in time with my heart, because quite suddenly, I realize-

The name he's called out isn't mine.