We learnt to exist in an odd triumvirate of half-tones, forced smiles, and languid sighs.

Henry, Bunny, you.

You matched each other like day, night and eclipse. Crossing paths more and more, building an altar of touches where the rules bent to the body's weakness.

Henry allowed it. Or rather, it looked like this: his speechless consent resembled the approval of a scholar observing a risky experiment. When you sat in his lap and he, without glancing up from his book, curled an arm round your waist, Bunny would immediately clamber in beside you like a clumsy dog, nuzzling your shoulder. And Henry snorted every time, considering Bunny just an annoying puppy who hadn't yet learned where the boundaries were.

And Bunny hated that you called Henry a good boy. He, by the way, wanted to be one too.

Rain pounded the windows of Henry's house. The three of you lay under one blanket, while Bunny was trying to read The Iliad, but he kept getting muddled. Nerves made his dyslexia worse. He had every reason to be on edge.

You were half lying on Henry. His fingers were slowly running through strands of your hair, and you, as always, were muttering into his neck about what a good boy he is…

Bunny broke.

He slid down to your feet. He knelt. His hands were hot as they cupped yours. He pressed them to his face, his lips, his cheeks, hoping you'd see him too.

"Why does he always—?" his voice chirped indignantly. "I wanna too. I always wanna. Please, I'm a good boy. I'm… your good boy, um, sweetheart?"

Henry frowned as though weighing up whether to get involved. "What's all this, then? You know they're just words, Bunny. They don't mean anything."

His breathing was even, but his fingers suddenly dug into your thigh, and his arms wrapped hungrily around your waist, forcing your buns to press tightly against the fly. There was jealousy between them now.

"Hey, you! This means it!" Bunny squeaked, lifting his head. His eyes were wide, full of that boyish, breakable hope. "It means something to me. Please, pretty please."