Chris felt silly inside as he tucked in the bust in bed. He felt like a little child with a teddy bear that he cuddled with at night.
Yet Chris knew very well that his beloved Piers was more than but some plush plaything. He was, through circumstances unknown, as alive and aware as he, and had the covers of his bed gone a bit higher, enough to cover the small clay stub that passed for a body, he would have may as well been indistinguishable from another man Chris shared his world with.
Chris had found him earlier in the night, halfway up the stairs, trying with great effort to squirm his way up the steps over to the artist’s bedroom. He couldn’t help but feel a hint of remorse at his creation’s less-than-ideal condition, as poor Piers was never meant to come alive: but now he had, as something that was very much a person, but something that was not just other than, but less than, a complete human.
Still, Piers struggled to keep some semblance of a normal life without a body. He’d become a bit of Chris’s own flatmate, and with practice had figured out how to make use of what he had. Still, Piers was helpless without Chris. While he was surprisingly self-sufficient, he still depended on Chris on many things.
Chris, barely awake, gently caressed the bust’s hair, wondering if living sculptures dreamt. Seeing him laying on his bed, devoid of anything below his neck, he looked every bit as vulnerable and fragile. Yet as long as Chris was around, as long as his hands of creation held him close, Piers felt secure that his sculptor would always keep him safe.