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            "Trevor..." A concerned voice whispered into the darkness.
            "Trevor, come back!"
            "Claire..." someone whispered back, half asleep.
            "Trevor, don't you dare walk away from me..."
            "Claire!"
            Alex shook her shoulder lightly as she lay asleep next to him. Claire woke suddenly, staring at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom. For some reason, she half expected to see ballroom chandeliers hanging there, ablaze with candles. But she couldn't quite remember why. She was certain she heard the echoes of a string quartet's elegant music in the air for a second, but then it seemed to fade to the corners of her mind. Now as she listened, all she heard was her quiet bedroom. Lifting her head, she looked around, barely awake and confused.
            "Tre... Alex? What is it? What's wrong?"
            As she looked at him, she felt a chill emanating from his side of the bed. Without a word he removed his hand from her shoulder and laid back down, staring at the ceiling.
            "You know... I've tried to be understanding," Alex began, his voice quiet but annoyed.
            "Alex, what are you talking about?" Claire asked, still confused.
            He continued on, not looking at her. "I know how involved you can become in your work. I saw that the first night I met you. I mean, so can I. Of course I've never fixated on writing my next article in my sleep..."
            "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Claire tried to interrupt him, but he talked over her as if trying to reason with himself.
            "He's a complex case... you're in the middle of writing a book about him... I understand that. And I know that you hate the fact that so far you haven't been able to do anything to help him..."
            "Alex..."
            "It takes a lot of thought and consideration, a lot of research, to do what you do. But still, I just don't see why he's always in your-"
            "Alex!" She had definitely had enough and she hit him on the shoulder to get his attention.
            "Alex, talk to me, not my ceiling."
            "You were dreaming about him again."
            "Dreaming? About who?"
            "Who else," he said angrily, swinging his legs out from under the sheets as he stood up. Claire let out a frustrated breath and dropped her head back onto the pillow beneath it. She tried to stay calm as she spoke in her most rational voice.
            "How many times are we going to have to go through this, Alex?"
            He stopped her angrily. "No, wait a second. Hold on. Isn't that supposed to be my line? Isn't that what I should be asking you?" His eyes were hard and worried at the same time as he looked at her from where he stood near the foot of the bed. A wave of feelings rushed through him, sending his heart pounding to the pit of his stomach as he thought about what she meant to him. He tried to ignore how beautiful she looked as she lay there bathed in the soft moonlight streaming in through her bedroom window. Just as he tried to ignore what he really feared was going on. The room was silent for several seconds as neither of them spoke. Growing slightly calmer, he sat down quietly on the edge of the bed, doing his best not to look at her.
            The sheets rustled as Claire reached out to turn on the small lamp on the nightstand beside her bed. As its warm light suddenly filled the room, she propped herself into a seated position. Watching him, she said nothing, trying to sort out what she felt. She understood his reaction and the insecurities it might cause. But after all that they had been through, that he would still have those insecurities made her feel like she was pounding her head against a wall. Why were all the men in her life so stubborn? Both him and Trevor. She almost laughed bitterly to herself. Here she was, a couples therapist. Why wasn't her own relationship easier? Nothing is ever easy, she reminded herself, and she finally spoke.
            "Alex, it was only a dream. Its not a sign of-"
            "What was it this time?" he interrupted, his voice somewhat calmer than before. "Another romantic trek across the desert? World War I again?"
            Claire started to speak but stopped. She felt suddenly uncomfortable about the subject.
            "Well," she said softly, "It's starting to fade, but... there was something about a ballroom, a grand staircase or something... I don't know."
            "I'm not really sure how I should feel about this," he said.
            "It meant nothing, Alex. You can't go all defensive on me just because I had a dream. Not everything flittering through my head is a reflection on you, you know. Or on our relationship. Just because I'm working through some problems outside of us doesn't mean that I love you any less. It doesn't. I mean," her voice took on a more exasperated tone, "my god, Alex, it was only a dream."
            He finally looked at her. "You dream about him almost every night. I hear you talking... no, arguing with him in your sleep."
            She gave him an annoyed look. "And what have you heard that's been so incriminating?"
            "That's not the point."
            "Then what is?" Claire tried to find some explanation that would ease his worries. "Alex, he's my patient, that's all. He's not some fantasy man floating around in my dreams. Just because I'm concerned about him doesn't mean that there's anything going on between us. Give me a little more credit. I guess its just... well, I don't really know why I dream about him so much. Maybe my sub-conscious mind is trying to construct disparate scenarios to try to gain some insight past his dementia..."
            Alex let out a bitter laugh, as if that was exactly the sort of thing he had expected to hear from her. "Sounds like a rationalization to me, Claire."
            "Rationalization? Of what?" Claire felt her voice slowly growing louder, but she didn't care. He was being a stubborn oaf. She didn't like what he seemed to be implying. "Don't you think that I'm trying, honestly trying, to help Trevor? That I want him cured of this delusion of his that he's the god of love? He's hurting, Alex. Trevor's hurting and in pain in some place I can't reach. He needs to move past that to realize that he's just an ordinary, mortal man. I'm doing my best to convince him that."
            Just him? Alex wondered to himself.
            "Maybe he doesn't want to be convinced," he said.
            "Yeah, I think I noticed," she shot back.
            "No, Claire, you don't get it. What I'm saying is, maybe he doesn't need to be cured."
            Claire gave him a confused look. "What? Don't tell me that you... you don't honestly believe he's Cupid, do you?"
            "No, I don't."
            "Then what are you saying, Alex?"
            "That he doesn't either."
            That took Claire by surprise. She couldn't think of anything to say for a few seconds, stunned at his statement. Finally, she shook her head.
            "No, that's ridiculous."
            "It makes perfect sense." Alex moved over to her and knelt by the side of the bed as he took her hands between his. He had to make her see what was happening. "Claire, maybe you haven't been able to help him because there's nothing left that needs help."
            "But why would Trevor do that?"
            Alex was surprised that she didn't see it. He answered as if it were obvious.
            "Because he's in love with you."
            "Trevor? No..." she said in disbelief.
            "Trevor knows that once he's no longer Cupid, no longer some puzzle for you to solve, then you're out of his life. When that happens, he'll never see you again and he can't accept that. He doesn't want to lose you."
            "Alex, Trevor's delusion is very real. He sincerely believes he's Cupid. You've seen him. With his..." she shook her shoulders in imitation of Trevor. "How can you think he's faking that?"
            "Yeah, I've seen him. And he's not trying to get home to Olympus. He's trying to get home to you," he said, unwavering.
            Claire still couldn't accept what he was saying. "I think you're seeing things that aren't there. He's never shown any-"
            Alex shook his head. "If you believe that, then maybe he's not the one with the delusion." He stood up again, moving away from her. "Don't kid yourself, Claire. His stated goal in life is to match these hundred couples of his so he can serve his penance and go home. And for the most part he's tried to do just that with every couple he's put together. He's tried to find their true love. All except one. Us. If anything, he's done his best to try and come between us. He even told you before he introduced us that whoever he found for you would be someone you would hate. I mean, how much clearer does it have to be?"
            "That was just him trying to make a point. He's been nothing but encouraging since."
            "If he has, it's only been a smokescreen for what he's really after. The only point he's trying to make is that the person for you is him. And that's why he's still pretending that he believes he's Cupid. To string you along."
            "I... don't believe that Trevor would do that," she said, but her voice held less conviction than her words.
            Alex began pulling on his clothes as he gathered them from around the room. "Well, it's something you should consider." He looked around angrily for his shirt and found it drapped over a chair. "And maybe, just maybe you'll realize that's what all your dreams are really about. You keep telling me that in all of them he ends up leaving you. Maybe you're trying to tell yourself something. Something that you're not willing to admit yet. Something that neither of you is, about what's really going on."
            Alex didn't say what else he feared that she wasn't admitting to herself. That deep down, maybe she didn't want Trevor cured either. He finally finished getting dressed, draping his overcoat over one arm. As discreetly as possible, he felt for the small box tucked into his coat pocket. It was still there, but this was, without a doubt, not the right time for it. That would have to wait.
            "Who knows," he said, "maybe he really believes he's what he says he is. All I know is, if he's hanging on to the delusion of being Cupid so he can stay close to you, then your doing him more harm than good, Claire."
            With that he turned and left her bedroom. Claire sat there alone, not knowing what to think. After a few moments, she reached over to turn off her nightstand lamp and the room plunged into darkness. Quietly, she placed her head on her pillow, wrapping her arms around it as her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight. As she soaked it in, she closed her eyes and listened, almost imagining she still heard a distant string quartet playing.



            Trevor jerked his head up from his bed as he woke unexpectedly, covered in the soft full light of the same moon. He looked around as if searching for someone, but he found no one there. His eyes felt heavy as looked over at the clock face glowing beside his bed. Groaning at the late hour it showed, he awkwardly rose from where he lay, his sheets jumbled from a fitful sleep. Still drowsy, he padded towards his bedroom door, pulling the sheets off the bed to fall onto the floor. He didn't notice. He wouldn't have noticed if they had been on fire. On the backs of elephants. Doing the mambo. His mind was too muddled with sleep for such trivial matters. Pushing through the double doors out of his bedroom, he slowly walked towards the kitchen.
            Champ's voice, clear and articulate as if he were performing, cut off in mid-sentence when Trevor appeared. In his hands he held the script he had been reciting from, but his attention shifted fully to Trevor as he shambled towards him. Trevor gave him a look as if he was trying to figure out what Champ was. Still uncertain, he rubbed his eyes and seemed to finally accept that Champ was real. And awake.
            "Hey, Champoo! The face-man waketh," Trevor said in a tired, scratchy voice as he moved closer, passing him on the way to the refrigerator. "Why are you still awake at this un-godly hour."
            In sharp contrast to Trevor, Champ was a barely contained ball of energy, seemingly bouncing on his feet as he stood there. "I've got a big audition tomorrow... I mean this morning," he said as he checked his watch. "I am SO psyched for it that I couldn't sleep. I feel it. I'm going to nail this one. I think I have a great shot this time. Slam and Dunk!"
            "What's the part, Caffeine on a Hot Tin Roof? Because you'd qualify. I really wish more people had as much night energy as you. It would make my job a whole lot easier. You go knock them dead. We've all got to dream." Trevor opened the refrigerator door and removed a carton of milk. "Unfortunately," he muttered softly to himself.
            Champ heard him anyway. "Even gods among men? Do you dream, Trevor?"
            "Look, I'm still trying to get used to sleeping eight hours of the day, much less dreaming. Someone should really complain about these design flaws you humans are saddled with. Shortcomings aren't something we gods are used to. Now that I've been like you for awhile, let me let you in on a little secret. These mortal bodies of yours suck. Everyday with absolutely no consideration for your schedule, your mood, your bodies lapse into this magical land of catatonia that you can't avoid. I feel like I've been mugged by my own body. Bad engineering, if you ask me. Although some of the female floor models do have some interesting bodywork." Trevor shook the milk carton he held and realized it was empty. Without a first thought he placed it back in the refrigerator. "And yet I always hear someone complaining about how they don't get enough Coma-time. I don't see the attraction."
            Not even bothering to scold Trevor any more, Champ reached in and removed the empty milk carton. Calmly, he exaggerated dropping it into the trash can. "Well, in defense of mere mortals Trevor, some of our ill-conceived bodies actually get tired."
            Trevor smiled. "Except for nervous actors before a big audition, I guess. Regardless, sleep is a total waste of useful bed space."
            Still trying to use some excess energy, Champ slapped the script into his other hand loudly. He did it several times to some unheard rhythm until he realized that Trevor flinched with each sound.
            Trevor put a hand to his ear. "At least sleeping is quiet."
            "Sorry," Champ apologized. "You still haven't answered my question. Do you dream?"
            Trevor moaned. "Don't get me started on dreaming. Although I've used it to my advantage in the past, now I don't see how you mortals handle it. Do you have any idea how long it took for me to realize that none of it was real? I'd always assumed it would be obvious. Even now, how do I know that you're really here and not just another dream?"
            Champ smiled suddenly. He reached out and pinched Trevor hard on the arm.
            "Ow! What was that for?"
            "Just a little test. Its supposed to show that you're not dreaming."
            "Only in pain instead. Much better. Unless I'm dreaming of you pinching me."
            "Trevor, if you're dreaming about me trying to convince you that you're actually awake, then you really need some better dreams. Considering how you're the god of love and all."
            Trevor tried to ignore the sarcasm in Champ's voice. "Tell me about it. A minute ago before I lapsed back to lucidity, I was in a ballroom with a feisty brunette wearing too much dress and too little inhibition. Then, the next thing I know I'm back here looking into your annoyingly-lively-for-the-middle-of-the-night, thespian face. I mean, that's nothing but a tease..."
            "Well, I'll try to keep my liveliness to a soft roar, Trevor. So you can get back to your dream."
            Trevor nodded. "Thank you. It's nice of you to consider the adrenaline- challenged." He started walking back towards his room. "Victorian dresses. I'm surprised humans didn't just go extinct back then considering all the unwrapping involved for procreation. Just once I'd like to dream about the sixties. Free love. One of my favorite word combinations."
            Trevor stopped and considered. "She was a looker though, dress or no dress. Dark hair, fiery brown eyes, great figure. Not that she would ever stop arguing with me long enough to dare the thought of showing it."
            A look of understanding crossed Champ's face. "Dreaming of the illustrious Dr. Claire Allen again, are we Trevor?"
            Trevor paused. "Why would you think that?" he asked confused.
            Champ smiled to himself. "No reason."
            Trevor nodded as he headed back to bed, but then he stopped again. "Were you playing some music out here before I came out? Classical or something like that?"
            Already engrossed in his script again, Champ answered only off-handedly. "I don't think I even own any classical music, Trevor."
            "Oh. Okay." Trevor wondered what it was he remembered hearing. Finally he put it out of his mind. "Well I'm off for another dose of sexless death that you humans call sleep. Sexless and death. Two redundant words if I ever heard them. Good luck in the morning."
            "Thanks."
            Trevor climbed back into bed and lay quietly in the moonlight as he tried to get back to sleep. Suddenly he felt very alone and he wondered where Claire was. What she was doing at that moment. He decided it was better not to think about it. With Alex in town he had a pretty good idea of the answer. Still he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was late for something, that everyone was waiting on him. Trevor closed his eyes and imagined he heard long, full dresses scraping across a ballroom floor as they danced in time with distant music.


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