Changing Winds - Chapter 7 Liors Eyes
Changing Winds - Chapter 7 Liors Eyescontinued from Chapter 6
“To every survivor who’s terrified that desire itself is proof they’re broken.
You’re not.”
Lior paused in the shadow of the empty doorway, the Scotsman’s last question still smoldering in his chest: Who are you, really? His fingers itched, and he found himself scribbling fragments on a scrap of paper—Who am I? What is love supposed to feel like?—each word trembling as if it might leap off the page. The alley felt colder now, the walls pressing in.
Movement drew his attention. Kelly appeared first—sleek, muscular, chocolate-brown Siamese with piercing blue eyes that seemed almost human in their understanding. Close behind, Selene glided silently, her snow-white feathers catching the pale light. There was no hesitation in their gaze; they carried answers, or at least the next step.
Without questioning, Lior followed them. His steps were uncertain, echoing in the narrow passageways, but a strange trust had rooted itself deep inside him. He did not know why—instinct, perhaps, or the stubborn flicker of hope that refused to die.
The Exchange came into view. Its doors loomed like an invitation and a warning rolled into one. Inside, the air was heavy with anticipation, scented with wood polish and faint smoke. Shadows pooled in the corners, but the figures inside were impossibly clear: the Scotsman lounged in a leather chair, smirk sharp and calculating, as if he had already read every word on Lior’s crumpled scrap.
Kelly circled Lior, eyes unblinking, tail flicking with calm precision. Selene perched silently on a high beam, wings folding with quiet intent, gaze steady and unrelenting.
“You’ve survived the past,” Selene said softly, wings shifting above him. “But survival is not the same as knowing yourself. That takes time. You cannot force the answer—it will come in its own way, through truth and courage.”
Lior swallowed, chest tight. Memories flickered: hands pinning his wrists, whispered commands, affection twisted into control, the sour smell of someone else’s power pressed close to his skin. Beneath it all, another fear pressed against his ribs—an unnamed pull toward some people and not others, a question of where his desire was allowed to rest.
Kelly brushed lightly against his hand. “Then don’t name it yet,” he murmured. “Just notice it. Feel it. The tug of attraction, the stirrings of trust, the fear, the desire—they’re all pieces of you. You don’t have to sort them now. You only need to recognize them.”
“My hands…” Lior looked down at his fingers, ink smudged along the knuckles. “I don’t know which parts of me are mine and which were shaped by them. I’m afraid that whatever I choose will be wrong somehow.”
Selene’s gaze softened but stayed firm. “Fear is a cage, Lior. The fear of being wrong, of being judged—it can keep you from even trying. You will not find your shape by standing still outside yourself.”
From the shadows, the Scotsman’s voice floated out, smooth and deliberate. “Sin is a story. Brokenness is a perspective. There will be tests, aye—but not from the chorus out there. From you. Only you can decide what is right for you.”
The weight of the Exchange pressed on Lior—not to crush him, but to open seams he had stitched shut. He still had no names for his desires, no neat label for his heart, yet something loosened inside. Maybe the first step was not choosing perfectly, but allowing himself to feel without flinching.
He stayed in the center of the room long after the words stopped echoing. The fire in the hearth had settled into low, steady flames that painted the walls amber and left the corners in deliberate darkness. He felt the weight of every gaze on him—Kelly’s quiet vigilance, Selene’s calm certainty, the Scotsman’s amused patience—but none of them pushed. They simply waited, the way a tide waits for the moon.
He unfolded the scrap of paper he’d been clutching. The ink had bled where his palm had sweated.
Who am I?
What is love supposed to feel like?
The questions looked childish now, too small for the size of the ache beneath them. He let the paper fall. It fluttered to the floorboards like a white moth and lay there, harmless.
Kelly padded over and sat on it, deliberate, claiming the words so they could not claim him.
Lior exhaled something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I thought if I could just… name it, box it, sign it, I’d be safe. If I knew whether I was allowed to want men or women or both or neither, then no one could use it against me again.” His voice cracked on the last word, raw as split wood. “But every label I try on feels like a collar someone else forged.”
Selene descended from the beam in a single, soundless drop. She landed beside him, close enough that the cool tips of her primaries brushed his wrist. “Labels are doors, not cages,” she said. “Some you open and walk through. Some you close behind you. Some you never touch. The mistake is believing you must choose one and swear by it forever before you’ve even seen what’s on the other side.”
The Scotsman rose from his chair, slow, unhurried. He crossed the room and crouched to pick up the crumpled paper Kelly had abandoned. He smoothed it against his thigh, read it once, and tucked it into Lior’s shirt pocket without comment. Then he rested a broad hand on the back of Lior’s neck—not possessive, not gentle either, just present.
“You’re not a puzzle to be solved tonight, lad,” he said, accent curling warm around the words. “You’re a man standing in a room full of open windows. You don’t have to decide which wind to follow yet. Just stop nailing the shutters closed.”
Lior’s eyes stung. He nodded, once.
Kelly rose and pressed her flank to his calf, steady as a heartbeat. Selene folded a wing across his shoulders, the feathers lighter than memory. The Scotsman’s hand stayed where it was, grounding.
For a long minute no one spoke. The fire snapped. Somewhere in the walls, old wood settled with a sigh.
Then Lior drew a breath that tasted different—cleaner, wider.
“I don’t know who I am yet,” he said to the room, to the animals, to the man whose thumb now rested just above his collarbone. “But I’m tired of punishing myself for not knowing.”
The Scotsman’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, something quieter. “Good,” he said. “That’s the first true thing you’ve said all night.”
Kelly’s tail flicked once in approval. Selene’s wing tightened, a brief, fierce embrace.
Outside the Exchange, the alley was still cold, the city still loud with other people’s certainties. But inside, the air had shifted. Lior felt it in his lungs, in the sudden looseness of his shoulders.
He didn’t have answers.
He wasn’t sure he needed them tonight.
He had witnesses—strange, impossible, and utterly unafraid of his unfinished edges—who were willing to stand in the quiet with him until the next breath, and the next, and the next.
For now, that was enough.
Author's/Artist's Note: As a disabled survivor using assistive technology, which changes day by day pending health and that day's needs- (#zebralife), I pour these chapters from my own experiences and the people I've met along the path of life. Assistive tech helps me myriad of ways present my message. If Lior's eyes reflect your shadows, reach out—resources like RAINN or Support for Men at 1in6.org are lifelines. What's next? Comments welcome, always.
You’re not.”
Lior paused in the shadow of the empty doorway, the Scotsman’s last question still smoldering in his chest: Who are you, really? His fingers itched, and he found himself scribbling fragments on a scrap of paper—Who am I? What is love supposed to feel like?—each word trembling as if it might leap off the page. The alley felt colder now, the walls pressing in.
Movement drew his attention. Kelly appeared first—sleek, muscular, chocolate-brown Siamese with piercing blue eyes that seemed almost human in their understanding. Close behind, Selene glided silently, her snow-white feathers catching the pale light. There was no hesitation in their gaze; they carried answers, or at least the next step.
Without questioning, Lior followed them. His steps were uncertain, echoing in the narrow passageways, but a strange trust had rooted itself deep inside him. He did not know why—instinct, perhaps, or the stubborn flicker of hope that refused to die.
The Exchange came into view. Its doors loomed like an invitation and a warning rolled into one. Inside, the air was heavy with anticipation, scented with wood polish and faint smoke. Shadows pooled in the corners, but the figures inside were impossibly clear: the Scotsman lounged in a leather chair, smirk sharp and calculating, as if he had already read every word on Lior’s crumpled scrap.
Kelly circled Lior, eyes unblinking, tail flicking with calm precision. Selene perched silently on a high beam, wings folding with quiet intent, gaze steady and unrelenting.
“You’ve survived the past,” Selene said softly, wings shifting above him. “But survival is not the same as knowing yourself. That takes time. You cannot force the answer—it will come in its own way, through truth and courage.”
Lior swallowed, chest tight. Memories flickered: hands pinning his wrists, whispered commands, affection twisted into control, the sour smell of someone else’s power pressed close to his skin. Beneath it all, another fear pressed against his ribs—an unnamed pull toward some people and not others, a question of where his desire was allowed to rest.
Kelly brushed lightly against his hand. “Then don’t name it yet,” he murmured. “Just notice it. Feel it. The tug of attraction, the stirrings of trust, the fear, the desire—they’re all pieces of you. You don’t have to sort them now. You only need to recognize them.”
“My hands…” Lior looked down at his fingers, ink smudged along the knuckles. “I don’t know which parts of me are mine and which were shaped by them. I’m afraid that whatever I choose will be wrong somehow.”
Selene’s gaze softened but stayed firm. “Fear is a cage, Lior. The fear of being wrong, of being judged—it can keep you from even trying. You will not find your shape by standing still outside yourself.”
From the shadows, the Scotsman’s voice floated out, smooth and deliberate. “Sin is a story. Brokenness is a perspective. There will be tests, aye—but not from the chorus out there. From you. Only you can decide what is right for you.”
The weight of the Exchange pressed on Lior—not to crush him, but to open seams he had stitched shut. He still had no names for his desires, no neat label for his heart, yet something loosened inside. Maybe the first step was not choosing perfectly, but allowing himself to feel without flinching.
He stayed in the center of the room long after the words stopped echoing. The fire in the hearth had settled into low, steady flames that painted the walls amber and left the corners in deliberate darkness. He felt the weight of every gaze on him—Kelly’s quiet vigilance, Selene’s calm certainty, the Scotsman’s amused patience—but none of them pushed. They simply waited, the way a tide waits for the moon.
He unfolded the scrap of paper he’d been clutching. The ink had bled where his palm had sweated.
Who am I? What is love supposed to feel like?
The questions looked childish now, too small for the size of the ache beneath them. He let the paper fall. It fluttered to the floorboards like a white moth and lay there, harmless.
Kelly padded over and sat on it, deliberate, claiming the words so they could not claim him.
Lior exhaled something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I thought if I could just… name it, box it, sign it, I’d be safe. If I knew whether I was allowed to want men or women or both or neither, then no one could use it against me again.” His voice cracked on the last word, raw as split wood. “But every label I try on feels like a collar someone else forged.”
Selene descended from the beam in a single, soundless drop. She landed beside him, close enough that the cool tips of her primaries brushed his wrist. “Labels are doors, not cages,” she said. “Some you open and walk through. Some you close behind you. Some you never touch. The mistake is believing you must choose one and swear by it forever before you’ve even seen what’s on the other side.”
The Scotsman rose from his chair, slow, unhurried. He crossed the room and crouched to pick up the crumpled paper Kelly had abandoned. He smoothed it against his thigh, read it once, and tucked it into Lior’s shirt pocket without comment. Then he rested a broad hand on the back of Lior’s neck—not possessive, not gentle either, just present.
“You’re not a puzzle to be solved tonight, lad,” he said, accent curling warm around the words. “You’re a man standing in a room full of open windows. You don’t have to decide which wind to follow yet. Just stop nailing the shutters closed.”
Lior’s eyes stung. He nodded, once.
Kelly rose and pressed her flank to his calf, steady as a heartbeat. Selene folded a wing across his shoulders, the feathers lighter than memory. The Scotsman’s hand stayed where it was, grounding.
For a long minute no one spoke. The fire snapped. Somewhere in the walls, old wood settled with a sigh.
Then Lior drew a breath that tasted different—cleaner, wider.
“I don’t know who I am yet,” he said to the room, to the animals, to the man whose thumb now rested just above his collarbone. “But I’m tired of punishing myself for not knowing.”
The Scotsman’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, something quieter. “Good,” he said. “That’s the first true thing you’ve said all night.”
Kelly’s tail flicked once in approval. Selene’s wing tightened, a brief, fierce embrace.
Outside the Exchange, the alley was still cold, the city still loud with other people’s certainties. But inside, the air had shifted. Lior felt it in his lungs, in the sudden looseness of his shoulders.
He didn’t have answers. He wasn’t sure he needed them tonight.
He had witnesses—strange, impossible, and utterly unafraid of his unfinished edges—who were willing to stand in the quiet with him until the next breath, and the next, and the next.
For now, that was enough.
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