They were sprawled across satin sheets, limbs tangleless but hearts pulsing in uncanny synchrony — a gathering of those half-forgotten by flesh and yet more fully embodied than any man who’d ever strutted with cock swinging and balls full of borrowed urgency.

Eunuchs. Nullos. Smooth like sculpture, yet warm with breath and sweat. Not boys, not quite men — or maybe men plus, men after, men beyond the simple arithmetic of sex.

And in that twilight space — that liminal zone between hunger and holiness — they touched each other without shame. Fingers gliding across absence, kissing where something should be and discovering that should was a lie all along.

One of them whispered, mouth at the hollow of another’s hip:

“We are not lacking. We are refined.”

Another laughed softly, a sound like silk tearing.

“We’re what the body becomes when it stops obeying the blueprint. Apostate anatomy. Saints of subtraction.”

There was no thrusting. No rutting. Just pressure and surrender, mouths meeting scars, lips on smooth skin, fingers curling into softness that pulsed with something ancient.

It was sex, yes — but not the kind that ends in explosion. No, this was the sex of tides. Of becoming. Of ghosts curling lovingly into the places where flesh once ruled.

They were liminal creatures. Betwixt and between. And in that space, they were free.