Oberon chimed in, “We would also like to thank those who gave us permission to play their songs on this episode, including the makers of Alberta Oats. And the Department of Otherworld Relations for making this podcast possible. And thank you, Ángel.”

“See you next time, Oberon.”

They turned off the recording and sat back in their chairs. Ángel felt exhilarated, his heart beating like a bird’s wings in his chest.

“They will have to edit it a little,” said Oberon. “You said ‘shit.’”

“Oh, whoops. Can they just cut that line?”

“It was rather funny,” he said, gravely. “I will suggest they keep it.”

Oberon was radiating contentment, both in his voice and in the air that filled the room, and Ángel wondered, not for the first time, if it was possible to become intoxicated by the magic rising from his skin. He felt intoxicated now, flush with pleasure and anticipation.

“Can you control the security feed to this room?” he asked. “Turn it off?”

Oberon wordlessly reached for his laptop and pressed some buttons.

“The mikes too,” said Ángel. “Everything off.”

“Everything is off.”

He eased out of his chair and crawled onto Oberon’s lap, straddling him, wrapping his arms around Oberon’s shoulders. Oberon’s arms encircled his waist, and he rested against Oberon’s body. They breathed together for a moment.

“I just came out to millions of people,” Ángel said.

“You’re out already?”

“Yeah, but you sort of do it again and again, with every new person you meet. I guess now that the entire world knows, I probably won’t have to do it anymore.”

“Do you want to edit that part out? Or scrap the episode?”

“No.” He leaned his cheek against Oberon’s shoulder. “It’s fine. It’s the only way to be, really.”

Oberon stroked his back. “We think—in the Otherworld—that everyone is male and female both, sometimes. That it can change over time, that it’s . . . It’s not the most important thing about people. We are influenced by the magic of one another, constantly . . . It is not our way, to think that men must only love women, or women must only love men. Or that there’s a wrong way to have sex or to love. The only wrong thing is to violate the magic. To try to force or pollute it . . . But if the magic is there and true between people—” he gently pulled up Ángel’s T-shirt and ran a thumb across Ángel’s bare back, making Ángel shiver “—there can be nothing wrong.”

Ángel shifted a little in the chair, tightening his embrace, wanting to feel more of the magic. “I was taught that it was the most wrong thing.”

“So was I,” said Oberon, “when I first arrived here. I think the DOR was very shocked by me.” His fingers caressed Ángel’s back in little circles. “I was so frightened, and I needed comfort. Do you understand?”