[Iggy's fingers hurt from gripping the railing so tight. His body moves, directed by Sully's thrusts and a soft, helpless moaning issues from his mouth.

Iggy is more used to the pain of others than he is his own. His function is to listen, to absorb. His own hurts are to be ignored. It makes responding honestly to Sully both excruciatingly difficult and oddly attractive because he can almost pretend that someone wants to hear it.

Iggy's voice is hushed, the words spoken quickly like he's frightened someone will overhear.]

My mother was my best friend. She taught me everything - all the natural mediums are on her side of the family. The women's side. They were so sure I'd be a girl. My father read books and comics in his youth that made him believe in magic. He's a theory guy, he can tell you about polarities. Dualities. 'Opposites are identical in nature, but different in degree.' Every truth is a half truth.

[Iggy clamps his mouth shut and moans loudly, lifting his head and adjusting his grip on the rail.]

Ah. I. I don't have a life. I knew the dead, as a child. My only playmate was a ghost. I miss her. I grew up and the living knew I didn't belong with them, they thought I was strange. I am strange. I ran away and I painted and I'd talk to people but I'd make it weird and I'd go home and I'd sit alone and fuck alone for strangers on the internet. People who want my body, people who are grieving in smaller ways and need someone to listen. So I listen.

I'm a support system. That's all.

I paint because nobody listens.