He lay beside them, nude form pressed lightly against nude form, his breasts pushing into their back. The two lay there, silent, solemn. He put a pale arm across their darker belly.
They read, flipping the pages every now and then.
He knew not what he felt, and wondered if this was love. It couldn't be. He felt like he usually did, his thoughts tinged with a dull despair. He owned them, and he supposed he should be glad. They were his, but how dare he stay in their presence? What could make him, a gross, girly slob of an androgyne, think that he could deserve to own them? Sure, they weren't perfect themself, but he was worse. He supposed the person in front of him had some strange, somewhat masochistic desire to have his warm body by theirs. They seemed comforted by it at least, and that was good enough for him.
His face glided across the cotton of the pillow to their hair. A shoulder-length green punky-looking cut. The roots were showing, and it didn't smell freshly-washed, but to him