The Lyricism of the Masses

2009-09-28T17:18:03Z

Title: The Lyricism of the Masses
Chapter: Luxuria or Lust (1/7)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: In my mind this is Kris Boyd/Aarón Ñíguez. However, no names are mentioned.
Summary: Based on the seven deadly sins. A love story in seven parts.

Three candles are lit by a steady hand and watched by a wavering gaze. The boy is worn out and his body aches. His bones feel cold and he wants to be held but knows that would be too much to ask. Instead, a shaky breath hits the new-born lights and they quiver with him. Shadows dance across deep-red walls, and he barely notices the cool glass as it’s brought to his lips. He closes his eyes but the wine barely starts to quench his thirst. Far too soon, the glass is ripped from his mouth and placed in front of the candle-light and the flames are perverted.

Distractions banished he turns his gaze forwards. The man watches him, unashamed by nakedness as he stands, wine swirled in the bottle, neck held loosely in his hand. The boy tries a smile but it remains unmatched. He sees the flames reflected in the older man’s eyes, they dance and they sway. He envies them. He bites his lip and tastes the salt. He’s reminded of the sea and the thought is absurd, he hums a tune in his mind and thinks instantly of home.

It makes him feel sick.

Looking away he reaches for his own glass and he tastes the wine. It’s sweet and bitter. It burns his throat as he swallows it all. Still the man watches but doesn’t say a word. He can’t bring himself to look at him in the eye. The boy is ashamed but he thinks he can hide it well.

He touches the flames, they burn and his fingertips blister. But he smiles, sweetly so saccharine. He dips into the liquid wax, holding his fingers aloft as he watches it dry. It reminds him of ice and his bones feel colder. The window rattles in its pane. The curtains flutter from draughts in high archways and the rainclouds can contain themselves no longer. He sighs as one of the candles is extinguished.

The boy looks away. The wax is no longer beautiful, simply an irritation. He drags his fingertips across his stomach, breaking shards of feather-light wax mix with the spilled seed on his skin. He wants to draw a picture, a happy face to smile back at him. But he doesn’t, he draws a cross then tears it down. He sighs and the candles burn out.

Pale light from the moon is all that is left. The shadows stop dancing and the cold spreads to his blood.

He snaps his head up when he hears the heavy sound of glass placed on polished wood.

“You’re a mess.” Man looks disgusted with boy.

So, he picks the final shards of wax from under his fingernails. His fingertips have started to bleed. The skin is ragged but he shrugs, “You did this.”

“You’re nothing but a whore.”

Boy pulls a feather from his hair, the blood mixes with the white and he laughs at how beautifully barbaric it looks, “You did that too.”

The man refills his glass then walks across the room to refill the boy’s. He looks at him, spread out on the bed, wanton, lustful. Young flesh in all its glory. His thighs are scarred but he never asked why. He doesn’t care as long as they keep gripping his sides tight when they fuck. His wrists are bruised, thumb marks evident. His thumbprints. A brand. His chest is marred, bite marks scattered on golden skin. They look obscene.

He still holds the wine bottle in his hand and covers most of its top with a finger, he lets it drizzle over the boy’s chest, up his neck, it splashes his collarbones and he catches the rest on the tip of his tongue.

“Why do you keep coming back here?” He puts the bottle back on the dresser.

“You ask me to.” He’s lying on his side now, semen drips grotesquely down his stomach onto the bed below him.

“Why do what I say?” The man sits at the edge of the bed, he doesn’t look at him.

“Love.”

The man laughs. It’s harsh, but not as cruel as he’d hoped. “This isn’t love.”

“Then what is?”
*

A/N: Any and all feedback is gratefully received good or bad. I guess this is my return to writing my own fic after a very long break (collaborations and requests aside) so I'd be interested to know what people think of this.

acidcherries

The Lyricism of the Masses