Word Count: 1149

A pair of hands slipped beneath his skirt, caressing his stomach, rising up his chest, ghosting over soft, cream colored skin. Paris shivered and smiled but didn’t turn around – not yet. His eyes were focused on the objects placed in a line upon his dresser. He picked up one of the snowglobes and twisted the key, leaning back against a solid chest as the now familiar song began to play. Quietly, he hummed along, content to listen while remaining within the circle of a pair of strong arms.

There were three of them now, each identical to the other – globes of glass on a white base, encasing the figure of a tranquil woman, submerged in water and glittering snow. He knew there were others with more than him, but Paris was proud of those he’d managed to collect. The first had been a strange coincidence, an unsuspecting win, but the second and third were just as special, if not more so, won when he’d actually coveted them. Somewhere along the line they’d become important to him, perhaps because he viewed them as a vehicle in his dreams. If he watched them enough, listened to them enough, maybe he would see that woman again, maybe something in his mind would click and he’d find out who she was, what it all meant.

He’d taken the snowglobes home with him over break for just that purpose. Aside from that, he couldn’t bear to leave them in his dorm-room. He had an irrational concern that they might get lonely without him, and he knew all too well how horrible being lonely felt.

“Stop messing with those things and come on,” a voice said in his ear, drawing him backwards, toward the bed.

Paris laughed and pushed the young man away, picking up the other two snowglobes to wind them as well. They played the same song, not quite in unison, filling his room with tinkling noise.

“Will you come on already? I don’t have all night,” the young man complained.

Paris rolled his eyes at his companion but turned to him, taking him by the arm to lead him to the bed. “You’re so impatient.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Why would I want to listen to those creepy things?”

“You think they’re creepy?” Paris wondered. He’d thought the same thing himself, before. Now he simply found them intriguing.

“Everybody wants them, but no one knows what they are,” his partner explained.

“Hmmm,” Paris hummed in agreement, but could say nothing else as he fell onto his bed, the warm weight of another body clambering over him.

They kissed and touched and removed each other’s clothes. Paris’s room was soon filled with the sounds of panting breath, sloppy kisses, and the sighs of fabric as shirts and pants were discarded, piling on the floor by his bed. His blood ran hot, his mind grew hazy with desire, and his skin tingled when touched. The young man’s hands were everywhere – his hair, his sides, his legs – pulling him further into a pool of longing.

Paris broke a particularly deep kiss quite suddenly, startled out of the moment by a strange sound across the room. “Wait, wait,” he said, grabbing onto the wandering hands. “Stop.”

“What?” his companion asked, annoyed, eyes narrowed in consternation.

Paris ignored the attitude, straining to hear the sound again. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That!” Paris indicated, looking around for the source. “That voice.”

The other young man looked at him strangely, half concerned and half disturbed. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Be quiet a minute.”

He waited for it again, anxious to know that he was right, that he wasn’t crazy, that there really was a small voice coming from somewhere in his room.

“Help me… please…”

“There it is!” he said excitedly, sitting up and turning toward his snowglobes. The music was winding down, slowing as the gears inside grinded to a stop.

“I swear to God, Paree, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and if you don’t knock it off I’m going to get up and leave. You’re acting weird.”

“Shh!” Paris said, extricating himself from his grasp and forgetting to deride the boy’s use of the horrid nickname. In his excitement, he didn’t even notice he’d said it.

“… the world… keep… safe…”

“I know that voice,” Paris determined, slipping out of bed. He stepped over the piles of their clothing and moved toward the dresser, stepping slowly, as if the voice would fade if he was too hasty in his approach. “I’ve heard it before.”

His companion ‘tsk’ed but said nothing else.

“… soon…” it promised. “… soon…”

It stopped the moment the song ended, each snowglobe ceasing its music, one after the other. Paris reached out to take hold of the first, lifting it up to peer through the glass. The figure inside hadn’t moved, nor had it change, and his room was silent once again. Carefully he shook it, as if doing so would bring back the voice, but all it did was disturb the water, swirling glitter around the globe.

Resolute, he turned the key again. Maybe if he heard the song, maybe if he played it again, the voice would come back.

Days ago, Paris would have wondered if he was going insane, yearning to hear a voice he didn’t even know was real. All he knew now was that he had to hear it, he had to know, he had to listen and listen closely.

“That’s it,” the boy behind him said, and Paris heard him rustling around in the dim lighting. “I’m leaving. You’re going nuts, and I’m not going to sit here and wait for you to feel frisky again.”

Paris didn’t stop him. He thought he should, but for some reason he was entirely unconcerned about the boy he’d brought home. When moments ago it had been his utmost intent, physical pleasure was now the furthest thing from his mind.

The boy left after tugging his clothes on, stomping out of the room as he grumbled under his breath. Paris watched him go but didn’t say anything to him, his attention soon focused on the snowglobes. He set the first one down to pick up the second, winding it up before doing the same to the third. They played together, closer in unison than they had before though still not quite in tune, but it didn’t matter. It sounded beautiful.

Paris set them down and went back to his bed, humming as he sat along the edge. He watched them, waiting for the voice to come again, but it never did. The sad song played wistfully on, soft and melancholy, and Paris was alone.

But he knew that voice, knew it as he knew his own. He’d heard it in his dreams, gentle and full of promise.

“I’ll be here soon…”