Frigid Rain and Rose Blood
Roses growing wildly in a bush, spilling all around the window sill which the puppet master's lithe body leaned over. By the glow of a sliver of light, reaching under the door, the shiny leather of his boots reflected a white streak. Aside from that, the only light was coming from the stars and the lonely moon. The dark steel of storm clouds rising in the night sky sought to obscure even these dim beams. From his second storey window, Dietrich leaned out to look down upon the tangled mess of thorns below.
How the hell did they grow this high?
Stretching out a hand, sheathed in a warm glove, Dietrich snapped off a long stem riddled with thorns. Turning his back to the outside, he then slid his petite behind onto the small ledge.
Wouldn't it be fun to fall down right about now?
A smile at the grim prospect. Still holding the bloom in one hand, he slid off the gloves which had kept his pale flesh warm. In the frigid air he could feel his fingers tingling. An icy breeze flew towards his back, encasing him in cold. Irrelevant. Winds come and go wherever they please. But this rose is already dead, murdered by the master of puppets.
It's quite cold.
Pinching two fingers of his left hand onto a thornless part of the stem. With the other hand, he extended his fingers, drew the first two to his lips and licked them on the tips. Drawing his hand away from his warm mouth, he held his fingers open. And strangled the long stem of the rose.
Aah-
Still with his right hand clenched in a tight fist around the stem, he used his left to drag it through his flesh. Warmth arrived, a moist liquid illuminated in full crimson glory as the door to the second storey room swung ajar. Into the room came warm light that fought its way around the void figure walking towards the puppeteer.
Isaak! I-
Silenced with a kiss. The magician drew his protégé closer, with his left arm circling the small of the puppeteer's back. Rain drops flew inside, and soon a deluge of the wet guests had made their way into the room.
Would you like a rose, Isaak?
Looking down to examine Dietrich, Isaak grew a little worried. Just a little. Fresh rainwater dripped from his head, onto his eyelashes, and soaked through the thin white shirt of his protégé. It had gone see-through. Not to mention his right hand, which had been sheltered from the rain between two bodies. Brilliant crimson in colour, clutching a rose and shaking violently.
I'm so tired Isaak. So tired…
When Dietrich awoke he was warm again, half-naked in bed with Isaak on a chair beside him. He had fallen asleep, head on Dietrich's chest. In a small glass bowl floated an unstemmed rose, pure white save for the congealed blood spotted down one side.
Ahh...roses are lovely things, are they not?