“They’re still chasing us! Why won’t those damn things give up?” Mat heard from behind him.
“Are kobolds supposed to be such dicks? I thought they hated the sun,” he yelled back as a bright flash whizzed past, just missing his head.
Turning, he saw his friend, his traveling companion, firing bolts from his fingers as fast as he could. They’d been through so much like their most recent trip into the dungeon with the kobolds. True, sometimes, these adventures netted them jewels and gold while others ended up with them running like cowards from an angry band of kobolds. Watching the power in his friend magic reminded Mat just how far they’d come together.
They continued to run until they were both exhausted. Finally, dripping with sweat and blurry-eyed, they stopped. Looking back over his shoulder, he took a quick count. Only ten or so left. They’d managed to reduce the number by over half, a more manageable fight. Pulling his daggers, he took a deep breath and turned to see if his friend is ready as well.
Mat froze. His companion’s face… it was a blur; he couldn’t make out any of its features. With the attackers growing closer, he searched his memory. Why couldn’t he remember his friend’s face? Who was this? Where were they? And more importantly, if he couldn’t remember the face, was he even sure it was a friend?
That damn dream again. Every night for the last two weeks, the same dream. Matsugo sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. It was fucking strange. What did it mean? He pulled back the covers, shivering in the cold night air. The seasons had started their change; winter was knocking at the doors of Seattle.
In the dark, he walked to the bathroom. He didn’t need light. Mat had lived in this house for almost as long as he’d been alive. The only time he hadn’t awoken in this bed, in this room for that matter, was during his short attempt at college. But that ended when he’d become an orphan. All three members of his family killed in a car accident. His mother and sister both died at the scene, while sadly, his father had lingered. In the hospital, the old man had never fully awoken and finally passed away as well. In many ways, Mat felt his father never waking up was the last mercy this life had offered him. He never had to suffer the pain of learning that all he loved had already left to prepare his way.
Mat sat with his father for days, holding his hand, telling him he was getting better. The few times he stirred in his restless slumber, with all those tubes and wires snaking from his body, Mat had whispered that his beloved wife and daughter were waiting for him. He never knew if his father understood his lies, but then what else could a son do but lie? So, Mat did.
Finally, on that last morning, the old man opened his eyes. They had darted around, confused, until eventually finding his son, his adopted son, and there they locked. Matsugo smiled, hoping it was the start of a new day. That wasn’t to be, for as the edges of his father’s mouth curled up, bringing hope with the weak smile, he released his last breath and slipped from this world. In such a short time, Matsugo Chang had gone from having a disapproving family to being alone. It’s strange how once they were gone, he realized even a disappointed family was better than none.
Mat walked into the bathroom, his nude body shivering from the cold. He stood in front of the toilet and relaxed, allowing the stream of urine to flow, as he looked out the window above the tank.
His life had been understandable once. Now his family was gone, and he lived in the house he had spent most of his youth trying to escape. Money wasn’t a problem. His parents had been frugal, and once the lawyers and tax people were gone, they’d left him with a nice nest egg. But still…
He shook, allowing the last drop to fall into the water below. He turned, catching a glimpse of himself dusted by the moonlight in the full-length mirror beside the tub. He should get his hair cut. His mother hated it when it got this long. The jet-black locks were now down to his shoulders, hanging in his face. He’d resorted to pulling it back into a stump of a ponytail. He liked it long. He didn’t consider himself arrogant, but he knew he was attractive. He’d always enjoyed working out; the strain settled his mind. He wished he was taller, standing just a little over five and a half feet. He chuckled about how that half a foot mattered, at least to him.
His body had almost no hair. Even a mustache was hard to grow. His chest, arms, legs, and ass were as smooth as a baby’s butt. When he wore speedos to the beach, the tight ass and the way his lines flowed into each other ensured both sexes would notice him. He didn’t have a bodybuilder’s, overdone physique, but the subtler frame of a swimmer. The perfection of his chest was only interrupted by two small barbell piercings, one in each nipple. His pecs slid down onto his abs, which flowed across his stomach like small waves on a calm day, ending in his jet-black pubes that curled around his cock. He’d lucked out; his manhood was perfect for his frame, long, uncut, and wide. He and his cock had become fast friends while in high school. It had been the only hobby other than video games he’d found he was any good at.
He’d heard all the jokes in the locker room — the rumor about Asians having small cocks. In his years of sleeping with other Asian men, he’d found that myth to most certainly not be true. He’d been born Japanese but adopted by a white family. His parents and sister were Caucasian, so he had grown up in a typical middle-class white household. His Asian friends joked he was nothing more than a white man with tanned skin and almond-shaped eyes.
He’d tried to hang on to aspects of his birth parents’ culture, but like all things distant, those parts you know, you forget, and the parts you don’t, you never bother to learn.
As he crawled back into bed, pulling the covers over his goose-bumped skin, he noticed movement across the room. He dismissed it, thinking it was his curtains, and settled back onto his pillow. Then he realized there wasn’t a window over there.
In shock, he sat up and almost screamed. There, in the chair beside his desk, sat a figure.
“Who are you?” he barked as he backed out of bed, putting it between him and the stranger. The man looked him up and down. It was then he remembered he was nude. Flushing red, Mat grabbed his pillow, placing it over his midsection. “I said who are you and why are you in my house?”
“You insisted I visit. You won’t answer your dreams,” the stranger said calmly.
“Answer my dreams! What the hell are you talking about?”