From Morocco to Paris by Lydia Nyx

room’s little balcony, framed with morning light. He wore his djellaba, fastened in just enough places so the fabric covered his midsection. His bare chest and leg were visible beyond the open folds, deeply tanned like Zane’s skin had become. He held a small red glass, which he lifted.
    “Want some tea?” Davey asked. “I ordered a pot from room service. Moroccan tea is a big deal, you know.”
    “Sure.” Zane grunted and rolled out of bed, wincing at the ache in his limbs and lower back. “Just gonna take a piss first.”
    When he emerged from the bathroom he felt a little better, being mobile and his bladder empty. He took one of the small, multi-colored glasses from the room service tray, poured some tea, and walked out to the balcony. The air was warm and lovely. He peeked over the railing. They were dizzyingly high above the busy street, the balcony enclosed on both sides.
    “This is nice,” Zane said. “I haven’t been out on mine yet.”
    Davey sat on a lounge chair, his legs spread on either side of the seat. This made his djellaba ride up far enough Zane had a clear view of both thighs, enough to know he didn’t have underwear on. He gazed at Zane, eyes luminous in the morning light.
    “Feeling better?” Zane asked.
    Davey took a sip of his tea and sucked at his lower lip. “Mm hm.”
    Zane took a sip as well. The tea tasted sweet, with a hint of lemon.
    “I’m sorry about last night,” Zane said. “Guess I was too fucked to fuck.”
    “It’s all right.” Davey sat his glass aside on a table next to the chair. “You wanna do it now?”
    “Can we have breakfast first?”
    Davey smiled and sat forward, clasping his hands. “You know, I think I figured it out.”
    “What’s that?” Zane strolled over to the railing again and peered over the edge.
    “Why I did coke last night.”
    Zane looked over at him. “You don’t need to say it. In fact, it’ll be a lot less awkward if you refrain. Don’t make this weird.”
    Davey tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, then he half-smirked, arching an eyebrow.
    “It’s not about you, Zane. Well, it is, but not the way you’re thinking. It’s because you told me about your father yesterday.”
    Zane tensed a little. “While I admit my father made me want to do drugs, I’m not sure why you, who never even met him, would feel the same way.”
    Davey spread his hands. “I grew up watching my mother do all sorts of depraved shit. She made a mess of me. For so long I was terrified of abandonment, desperate for attention, but I conquered those demons.” When Zane gave him a disbelieving look he smirked. “For the most part. Why not overcome the terror of drugs she instilled in me as well? One by one, I’m knocking down the walls she helped put around me, those defensive walls of imagined safety. I don’t want to live my life in fear.”
    “I’m not sure your logic is wholly sound, but whatever gets you through the night. However, I still don’t see what that has to do with my father.”
    “As I said,” Davey looked at him pointedly, “I chose to conquer my demons.”
    Zane lurched toward him before he could stop himself.
    “I told you,” Zane snarled. “Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me.” He pointed at Davey with the glass in hand and some tea sloshed out and splattered on the balcony floor.
    Davey looked down at the puddle, then back up at him, lips in a tight line, gaze guarded, but also knowing.
    Zane righted the glass and took a step back.
    “Just don’t,” Zane said tightly. “Just leave it alone.” He was a little surprised at his own reaction. Part of him didn’t want Davey working out that all his insecurities led back to his father and trying to fix him. Another part of him was ashamed for Davey to know how bad it had been.
    They were silent for a moment, Davey still staring at him, and then his expression eased and softened.
    “I’m sorry,” Davey said, the light coming back to his eyes. “I won’t bring it up