Keep an eye on him, the lieutenant said.

 

Just that. Keep an eye on him.

 

Easy enough, I thought. Just watch over a dull scientist in a dull, empty temple. I was already envisioning comfortable naps in the shade while the guy drew his squiggles and took notes.

 

But now I understand what the lieutenant meant. It's not that I have to keep an eye on him when he's working in the ruins, it's that I have to stick to the man like his shadow – day and night.

 

God help me.

 

I don't know whose idea this was, but it's sheer madness. Fancy a kid like him in a place like this!

 

Now I understand why the lieutenant chose me for the job. I'm possibly the only guy in the camp who has enough conscience and enough willpower NOT to club the kid directly on the head and drag him off behind a pillar to have my way with him. I guess it should make me proud.

 

It doesn't.

 

It makes me a nervous wreck.

 

He has... God, he has the smoothest skin I've ever seen on a man. A pale golden hue, soft and silky. I know - I've seen it when he opens the collar of his shirt and wipes away the dampness and the dirt. The sheen of sweat only serves to emphasize the flawlessness. It's perfect. It's everything. My tongue aches just looking at him.

 

And his eyes... Even the sky of Egypt doesn't stand a chance. Immense. Intense. He spears you through with one glance, like the sharpest bayonet. And yet, he's so innocent. His eyes are so innocent. So guileless and trusting. I thank God for the lieutenant's clairvoyance, even as I curse him for inflicting this on me. My friends and comrades aren't bad men, but they've been through a lot and there's only so much they could stand. The kid is a buffet, and they are starving. They'd eat him alive.

 

Me? I'm starving too, but I can hold on to it. Have to hold on to it. Will hold on to it. I can't let anything happen to him. I'd never forgive myself. Bonaparte may think the Great Pyramids are a treasure to mankind, but I think this kid is the single most precious thing on this God-forsaken continent.

 

He's... special. I can't explain it.

 

He's smart. Really, really smart. His mind cuts like a razor and he speaks more languages than I've ever heard about. He knows an awful lot of stuff about an awful lot of things. He draws to perfection and his voice is just as smooth as his skin.

 

And for all his vastly superior education he's so incredibly soft-spoken and nice and wise – to the point of being a first rate pain in the ass.

 

But then he's such a lovely pain in the ass.

 

Jesus, listen to me.

 

Almost fifteen years in the army and I'm waxing lyrical over a guy's eyes. That says it all, really.

 

Did I mention his lips?

 

My God, his lips are a capital sin all by themselves. Full and lush and sensual and... I wish he didn't have such beautiful lips. They're just asking for trouble.

 

I had good hopes when I saw them start to chap in this dry climate; no one wants to push his cock through a pair of blistered lips. Except some sickos, I guess. So I was secretly pleased to see those beautiful lips turn sore and painful-looking. Isn't that just horrible of me? But I could only see the upside of it. That he would be less attractive and that it would therefore be safer for him to be around the guys.

 

But some treacherous bastard gave him some sort of balm to spread on them, and now they're back to looking perfectly sinful and inviting. And shiny. I could kill the son of a bitch who did that, because I'm sure there was dishonourable intent behind the seemingly kind gesture.

 

But of course, the kid was radiating gratefulness.

 

"Jacques?"

 

And Christ, why can't he understand that I hate it when he calls me by my first name? The way he says it... He makes it sound so intimate. So... I don't know... Beautiful? Like it's something rare and valuable to him.

 

It fucks with my mind. Fucks with my resolve.

 

"Why can't you call me 'le vieux'*, like everyone else?" I grouch as casually as I can.  

 

"Well, because you're not old, for starters," he replies, full of logic.

 

"I'm grey."

 

"But not old."

 

"Nicknames are not about being accurate, they're about being colourful and easy to remember," I explain.

 

"I can remember your first name just fine, even if I do seem a bit oblivious to you at times," he argues, all soft tones and velvet eyes.

 

That's the worst thing, you see. He... sometimes it looks like he's flirting with me. I'm pretty sure he doesn't do it on purpose. It's just the way he is, the way he talks, the way he looks at you - like you're the only person in the room. And the fact that I AM the only person in the room is neither here nor there. He looks at you like you're important to him. He listens, he replies, he interacts.

 

He cares.

 

And that alone makes him stand out from everyone else. All the other scientists who usually see us as unclean barbarians... We are rather ragged and rough-looking and scholarly ignorant, but we're not dumb cattle. We are knowledgeable and skilled - in our own line of work.

 

It's something he knows. Something he recognizes and respects, even if he doesn't agree with how or why we happen to do our job.

 

"And besides," he goes on pleasantly, "I like 'Jacques'."

 

Jesus Christ. Just kill me now, you'll do me a favour.

 

I grunt sullenly and shuffle my ass to get to our canister of water. He comes to sit beside me against the thick, featureless wall, and I let him have the first drink. Always. Then I press my lips to where his have lingered, and sip the tepid liquid like it's the finest wine.

 

I'm so ridiculous.

 

"How did you cut your eyebrow?" he suddenly asks, his blue, blue eyes gazing at me deeply, as if he knows more than he should.

 

"Little fight over some food last night."

 

Which is true, in an awfully crude, roundabout way. It was a fight over 'food' – not the kind he thinks, though.

 

A couple of guys cornered me and offered me some money to turn my head the other way while they grabbed the kid and showed him 'a good time'.

 

I told them to get lost. Told them to stay away from him and get themselves a goat if they really wanted a partner worthy of them.

 

Which didn't really go down well. Hence the split eyebrow.

 

But as they spat out a few teeth and held their bleeding noses straight, I told them all that *I* intended to deflower the kid myself and that I'd do it when and where I pleased, and that in the meantime they'd just have to wait their turn.

 

No one argued. 'Le vieux' still commands their respect.

 

And yes, I feel disgusted with myself, but if I hadn't said that, they'd eventually have taken me on all at the same time and I wouldn't have stood a chance. The kid wouldn't have stood a chance. As it is, they're just doing as I said. They're biding their time, waiting for their turn to come.

 

I have to get him away from here. I have to find some way out of here for him. Surely Egypt is big enough; there have to be some other ruins to fuss about – preferably as far removed from this place as possible.

 

"It must've been quite some piece of food, for you to get into a fight over it," he observes, the ghost of a teasing smile quirking up his lips.

 

"It was the best share," I mumble rather cynically. "But it wasn't so much for the food itself, as for the principle."

 

He snorts. "I see."

 

Go fuck yourself, kid. You have no idea what's hanging over your head.

 

"I've asked to be transferred," he then tells me. "I'm going to Luxor in two days."

 

Shit.

 

I...

 

Leaving...

 

He's leaving our dull, empty temple.

 

Leaving me.

 

He stares into the courtyard that's inundated in harsh sunlight; it turns his eyes a surreal shade of blue. Then he looks at me, close and intimate.

 

"As mortifying as it is to admit it," he says quietly, "I'm aware of the 'troubles' I'm causing, and I'm aware of the protection you've given me. I want to thank you for that."

 

I want to keel over and die.

 

"I already told you, Jacques. I'm not as oblivious as it seems."

 

"No, apparently not."

 

"There's something I've been wanting to ask you, though. Was it just out of simple duty?"

 

"Duty," I acknowledge, eyes out front. But when the word is met by a strange silence, I look at him. "And... I didn't want to see anything bad happen to you, Daniel," I admit awkwardly, uttering his name for the very first time – my eyes riveted to his.

 

And suddenly I can't look away.

 

My God, he's the most beautiful man I've ever seen, and he's about to leave me. I cannot let him go without... without...

 

And I know it's impossibly crazy, but I cup his cheek gently and lean towards him...

 

And kiss him.

 

With my eyes open because I don't want to miss a second of it.

 

Our lips are still soft and damp from the water we just shared.

 

And he's kissing me back.

 

An eternity goes by before we pull back from the caress.

 

"I'm sure you'll like Luxor," he finally says, nuzzling my lips.

 

  

*Fin*

  

 

*Le vieux :  old man

 

 

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