Fumbling, wandering fingers, lips; he shuddered at every touch, and there were countless reasons, countless feelings behind it. He hated it, hated that he couldn't bring himself to hate this...thing between them.
He probably knew (he bit back a gasp at the sensation of icy fingers sliding up his shirt), didn't he seem to know everything? He planned for everything, foresaw everything, preparing for that, God-willing, impossible day when they would join with him...
And he knew that, as much as he tormented every person he came across, he was the only one who had gotten as close, if you could even call it that, and he supposed you would have to because even now he couldn't bring himself to stop the flick of a tongue over sensitive skin, gentle caressing hands belying the merciless person underneath it all...
And every time, he pleaded for the strength to stop this, because, God, think of all he had done to his brothers, to Poland, to him; he wondered what kind of horrible person he was that it wasn't only disgust he felt when he looked at him like that, spoke to him like that, did things like (he moaned softly, he couldn't help it, God)
He had tried to explain away his inaction to himself by claiming the futility of resisting; he couldn't have a chance of stopping the seemingly-omnipresent man. That pathetic excuse couldn't rid him of the wracking guilt he felt every time this happened, every time he had to return to his brothers and they knew, didn't they, they thought he was the most horrible person ever, didn't they? To betray them like this was more than he could stand, why couldn't he stop this?
He cries out, letting his anguish mingle with the sound, too overwhelmed to really hear him say, "Hush, now, Liet, we don't want them to hear, do we?"
He should spit in his face for daring to call him that, like there was any genuine feeling between them (but if there wasn't, why did he let this happen?), he should shove him away and leave right now. He does nothing and prays that he can hold back the sob threatening to rip from his throat...
His movements go feather-soft and his breath ghosts over his ear. "It's okay," he hears, but it is not the comforting words of a lover or a friend that are spoken. "I love you."
He cannot hold it in; the stinging tears spill from his eyes and he struggles to break away under the pinning grasp. He retches and chokes, doesn't care about keeping silent, and prays for God to kill him now, kill the wretched person he is now, that he cannot stop this.