His movements are slick and serpentine as he walks, weaving between the trees like a feral cat. The moonlight slips between the branches above him, falling in scattered silver scraps, brightening his ice-white hair for an instant before he moves away again. His eyes are sharp in the darkness, picking out the shapes of sticks and stones, stepping over them lightly. He’s moving as if he knows where he’s going, though he’s never been in this part of the woods before. He’s following a scent, a sound, a tug of unseen threads.

After walking—he doesn’t know how long—he hears it. A sound that whispers into the shells of his ears, not only in his mind. Running water. He moves faster, the pull even stronger now.

It’s little more than a stream that he finds, but he smiles all the same, sighing softly. He drops the bag dangling from his fingers—a rough-woven pouch with an old deck of tarot cards in it. His pale, slim hands move to the edge of his shirt, tucking under the hem and lifting, pulling it up over his head. His eyes are slightly hooded, looking at the cool stream as if it were a lover. His hand moves to the fastening of his jeans, working them loose, pushing them down. He steps toward the stream, his naked skin bright and pale in the moonlight. He steps onto a damp stone, then into the stream. He wades in deeper. It only comes to his knees, but he sinks down into it, kneeling on the slick stones.

He dips his hands into the water, scooping it up into the bowl of his palms and lifting it to his mouth. It’s cold, brackish this close to the ocean, but he drinks it all the same, letting it slip past his lips and down his throat. The rest he lets slip from his hands, coursing down his bare chest. He sighs, letting the energy of it course through him, washing the moss and mud from his bones. He sighs—a sound of keen pleasure as the water breaks against his stomach, sliding around his slim waist and circling again, holding him.