Chapter 1: Binding Desires
The returns cart wobbled on one bad wheel, a tinny, rhythmic squeak in the quiet university library hush. David “Daphne” Reyes shelved anthropology texts, his motions bored, efficient. Tonight’s wig needed adjusting—the lace was itching—and he was already thinking about pre-show coffee. His civilian clothes—black skinny jeans, a tight grey v-neck, scuffed boots—felt like a costume in reverse, dulling his shine.
Then he saw the ass.
It was perfect. Soft, plump, cradled perfectly by worn corduroy pants at a carrel desk. David paused, a heavy copy of Persepolis in his hand. Ay, sus. He wasn’t on the prowl here, not in Powell, but some sights demanded appreciation. The boy attached to it was bent over his work, head down, a dark curl falling over his forehead.
David turned to wheel the cart away, his professional librarian facade momentarily cracked by a private smirk. Then his eyes caught the books in the boy’s arms, the ones he was about to check out. Not textbooks.Absolute editions. Thick, slab-like volumes. The absolute Sandman. Four of them.
“Jesus fuck,” David whispered to the silent shelves. The combination was lethal.
He abandoned the cart. The squeak died behind him. He moved silently through the stacks, coming up beside the carrel. Up close, the boy—Omar, according to the student ID face-down on the desk—had a quiet, thoughtful face. Soft lips. Hazel eyes that were now wide, looking up at him.
“You read Gaiman in the original hardcover?” David said, his voice low but crisp in the quiet. He leaned a hip against the carrel. “That’s seriously hot.”
Omar blinked, then a blush crept up his neck. He didn’t look offended. He looked… caught. “They’re… they’re the only way to read the art properly,” he mumbled, his voice deeper than David expected, touched with an accent David couldn’t quite place. “The paperback versions are… sacrilege.”
David laughed, a bright sound he quickly muffled. “Preach, girl.” He reached across Omar, his forearm brushing the boy’s shoulder, and pulled a battered, well-loved trade paperback of Sandman: Preludes & Nocturnes from his own battered messenger bag. He dropped it on top of Omar’s pristine absolutes.
Their fingers brushed on the embossed title.
Omar’s sharp intake of breath was a tiny, audible gasp in the library stillness. Louder than the distant hum of the HVAC, louder than the turning of a page three aisles over.
David didn’t move his hand.“See? You’re a purist. I’m a pragmatist. Mine fits in my bag. Yours needs its own altar.”
“You’ve read it?” Omar asked, his eyes darting from the book to David’s face.
“Syempre. Who hasn’t?” David said, switching to Tagalog for a beat before slipping back. “Dream is… a mood. The whole damn thing. So you’re into graphic novels? Or is this just a rich boy’s decorative habit?”
Omar’s blush deepened, but he held David’s gaze. “I’m into stories that couldn’t be told any other way. The fusion. Watchmen. Maus. Blankets. Habibi.”
David’s eyebrows shot up. “Habibi? Okay, you’re not playing. That’s heavy, gorgeous stuff.Poetic. You got taste.” He straightened up, but didn’t step back. The personal space between them had evaporated. “So, Omar from… Saudi Arabia?” He glanced at the ID again.
Omar nodded. “Engineering student.”
“And you spend your trust fund on graphic novel absolutes. I respect the hell out of that.” David smiled, and it was genuine, not his stage smile. “What should I read next? Since you’re the expert. Something beautiful. And sad. I like sad.”
Omar bit his lip, thinking. David watched the motion. “The Nao of Brown,” Omar said finally. “Or Building Stories by Chris Ware. It’s a box. Literally a box of stories. You piece it together. It’s… heartbreaking.”
“Box of stories,” David repeated, nodding slowly. “I like that. Like life, di ba? A bunch of pieces.”
A quiet settled between them, but it wasn’t the library quiet. It was charged, humming like the old fluorescent lights above them. Omar seemed to gather his courage. He looked down at his large, soft hands on the Absolute editions.
“I… I have a couple of joints rolled. Waiting at my apartment. Off-campus.” He spoke to the embossed Morpheus on the cover. Then he looked up, his gaze direct, vulnerable. “We could go there. Smoke. And… nerd out on graphic novels.”
David felt a slow, warm pulse low in his belly. The invitation was naive and perfect. He saw it all: the dim apartment, the shared smoke, this quiet boy opening up page by page, volume by volume.
“A study session,” David said, his voice a playful murmur. “I accept. But I’m choosing the first album. No arguments.”
Omar’s smile was sudden and bright, transforming his face. “No arguments.”
As Omar gathered his things, his expensive books and his modest notebook, David shouldered his own bag. He watched the corduroy stretch again, and this time he let himself enjoy the view openly. The night had just gotten infinitely more interesting than any pre-show coffee.
The night had just gotten infinitely more interesting than any pre-show coffee.
Omar’s car was a surprise. David expected a flashy import, something sleek and funded by oil-rich relatives. Instead, he was looking at a dusty, late-model Toyota Corolla, beige, with a USC parking pass dangling from the rearview.
“Your chariot,” Omar said, unlocking it with a click that sounded more plastic than metallic.
“Humble,” David noted, sliding into the passenger seat. It was clean inside, but not sterile. The scent of old paper and that jasmine cologne lingered, mixed with a hint of mint. A small, embroidered tassel—an Arabic prayer, maybe—swung from the mirror.
“It gets me places,” Omar shrugged, starting the engine. It purered to life with a gentle reliability that was, in its own way, incredibly sexy.
“Alright, Mr. Purist. Music privileges are mine.” David plugged his phone into the aux cord before Omar could protest. He scrolled, a smirk playing on his lips, and pressed play.
The opening kung-fu sample of “Bring da Ruckus” from Wu-Tang Clan’s 36 Chambers exploded in the small space, raw and gritty.
Omar’s face broke into an immediate, uncontrollable grin. He actually did a little head-nod to the beat as he pulled out of the parking lot.“Yes. Okay. Perfect.”
David stared at him. “Wait. You know this? You like this?”
“It’s the greatest album of all time,” Omar said, completely deadpan, as he turned onto Westwood Boulevard.
David burst out laughing. “Shut up. No, it’s not. A Saudi chemical engineering student who reads Absolute Sandman and thinks Wu-Tang’s debut is the pinnacle of human artistic achievement? Who are you?”
“It’s a complex, layered work of sonic dissonance and street philosophy,” Omar argued, his voice earnest over the ruckus. “Each member represents a distinct element, a different facet of the whole. It’s chemistry. It’s… structured chaos.”
“Oh my god, you’re serious.” David was delighted. This was better than any script. He turned the volume down just a notch. “So what’s your element, huh? You the RZA? The quiet mastermind? Or are you the Ghostface? A little crazy, all hidden under those soft sweaters?”
Omar kept his eyes on the road, but the smile stayed. “Maybe I’m Method Man. The charismatic one.”
“With that accent? Baby, no.” David teased. The atmosphere was easy, crackling with a shared frequency. He decided to dial it up. “So, Omar. You bring a lot of boys back to your apartment to smoke and listen to Wu-Tang?”
A slight tension in Omar’s shoulders. A long pause filled only by Raekwon detailing criminal endeavors. “No.”
“Girls?”
“No.”
“Ah. So this is a special occasion. I’m flattered.” David let that hang, watching the streetlights wash over Omar’s profile. “Your first time bringing a graphic novel enthusiast home? Or your first time bringing… anyone home?”
Omar’s knuckles were pale on the steering wheel. “The latter is… also a no.”
The admission hung in the jasmine-and-weed-scented air, fragile as a soap bubble. David felt a surge of protectiveness, unexpected and sharp. He’d assumed… well, he’d assumed a lot of things. This soft, rich, beautifully strange boy was offering him a first.
He dialed back the teasing. Just a little.
“Okay,” David said softly, his tone shifting. “So we listen to the greatest album of all time. We smoke your perfectly rolled joints. And we look at beautiful, sad pictures in expensive books. No pressure. Just… vibes. Deal?”
Omar glanced at him, a quick flash of gratitude in his hazel eyes. “Deal.”
“Good.” David turned the music back up. “Now explain to me again how Ol’ Dirty Bastard represents a ‘distinct element.’ Because to me, he just sounds gloriously unhinged.”
As Omar launched into a surprisingly detailed analysis, David settled back into the seat. The car was just a car. The music was just music. But it all felt like the opening panel of something new, a story box he was desperate to open.
But it all felt like the opening panel of something new, a story box he was desperate to open.
But it all felt like the opening panel of something new, a story box he was desperate to open.
The Wu-Tang tape had given way to the hum of tires on pavement. The energy in the car had settled, less crackling, more warm. David watched the streetlights trace lines across the roof.
“So,” David said, breaking the comfortable silence. “A guy like you. Smart.Interesting taste. Rich, I’m assuming. You don’t bring people home. Do you even have friends here?”
Omar didn’t seem offended. He considered the question, one finger tapping the steering wheel. “I have colleagues. Lab partners. They are fine. They talk about football and internships and which start-up might hire them. It’s… functional.”
“But not friends,” David pressed gently.
“No.” Omar’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Most people are annoying. They talk too much about nothing. Their conversations are like… empty calories. I get full without being nourished.” He glanced at David. “Does that sound awful?”
“It sounds honest.”
Omar nodded, encouraged. “I prefer my own company. Studying.Reading. Listening to music. Smoking weed. It is a complete system. The books talk back in a better language. The music has more to say. And the weed… it just makes the music and the books talk to each other.”
David laughed, a soft puff of air. “Okay, that’s poetic as fuck. I respect it.”
“For example,” Omar said, his tone shifting into a focused, professorial mode. David could see him light up, the way his own queens lit up under the stage lights. “Take MF DOOM.”
“The villain,” David said.
“The supervillain,” Omar corrected. He signaled a turn, his movements deliberate. “People think it’s just complex rhymes. It’s not. It’s architecture. It’s the mask. The anonymity. He created a universe where the artist is a character, and the character is flawed, tragic, brilliant. He’s quoting Saturday morning cartoons and Schopenhauer in the same bar. He built a labyrinth out of sample loops and you choose to get lost in it. That’s not music you listen to with people who want to talk about football. That’s a sacrament. You sit alone with it. You take it apart. You put it back together. It’s a private conversation between you and a god who wears a metal mask.”
David was silent for a full block. He wasn’t a huge hip-hop head, but he understood passion. He understood creating a persona so complete it became a new skin.
“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard about a rapper,” David finally said.
“It’s not romantic. It’s factual,” Omar stated, completely sincere. He pulled the Corolla into the underground garage of a modern, bland apartment complex near campus. The engine cut, leaving them in sudden, concrete silence.
He looked at David, the ambient garage light washing out his colors, making him look young and very serious. “I don’t have friends because I haven’t met anyone who wants to have that conversation. Until maybe tonight.”
The air in the car grew thick. David’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. It wasn’t a line. Omar wasn’t capable of lines. It was just the truth, laid bare between the console and the bucket seats.
He didn’t know what to do with that kind of truth. So he reached for the door handle.
“Well,” David said, his voice a little rougher than he intended. “Let’s go upstairs and smoke your weed. And you can put on some DOOM. And I promise not to talk about football.”
Omar’s smile was a quick, precious thing in the dim garage. “Deal.”