I haven't a clue why I'm writing this. Someone's feeling oddly morbid. My pointless sequel to Prince Charming. Also dedicated to Boris Kutnezsov. No, he's in this; I mean my new friend and author of morose beauty I'm trying to demonstrate.
Disclaimer: Not yet...
-Bloody Fingertips-
''I'm never going to be the same again.''
He was right when he'd dare speak those words what seemed like an eternity ago, but he knew, it had barely been a few long days. The longest one's of his life with only one comforting thought.
The lids of their eyes slowly swooped down over the glossy orbs as their faces ghostly grazed the clear wall amid them, stopping for the longest moment, an eternity capsulated into a brief moment to latch onto. It would be theirs to remember when the time was right, a tiny flicker of hope in the pitch black.
The blue orbs, still dull and lifeless, no energy left in them to glimmer with the slightest sign of vibrancy glanced down to the cold floor and red specks tainting the gray that kept reminding him of the stormy clouds he'd asked to leave him with his one haunting memory; the one keeping him alive.
The crimson he watched drip, patter almost like the rain from the silvery above he knew would never cry tears like the droplets freely falling like his soul till crashing upon a hard matter, one he called reality.
It was blood, his blood from his bloodied fingertips. The blood he thought he'd never see again, the only proof he was still a fragment of his former self that hadn't turned black with oil he thought they'd exchange for his vital substance, leaving him as intended, a machine.
Yet still it pored from the self inflicted lacerations that proved he could still feel and was still, even if barely, like everyone else; a human, a being, an entity of flesh with whatever bits remained that weren't stolen.
It was comforting, as much as his lingering reminiscence oddly enough to watch the inky red fall from every bloody fingertip as he moved them, almost like a puppeteer. He felt no pain, not after what he'd injured, the deep tip wounds were merely scratches to him that did nothing but numb the ivory skin, marred and tainted. He only wished the loss of feeling could be omnipresent and conquer him but that would mean taking away what he fought to keep of himself in a kiss, shared though separated, real but not.
He sat and watched till the scars crusted over and blood ran dry before picking up his blade, another reminder of his past and brought the sharpened point back to his index and gently, delicately ran it over the scab. Not a wince, nor even a shudder, his breath didn't hitch or falter as it dug deeper into the muscle, he didn't even flinch till the handle on his door began to turn and he looked up to see the intruder.
He took in the appearance, shocked but only noticeable on the sudden wave of worry washing through the marine depths, sunken in and faded. The first remark, as his new guest approached had been the bruising, a grotesque mauve and swelling so blatant on the pale skin. Beneath the eyes looking back at him, under the left had been a gash, only a surface graze but still apparent, vibrant against the contusion.
There had been more wounds, he was sure of it, but the days always healed the exterior so much faster then the inner turmoil could ever he repaired, if possible. The weight shifted on his bed, the presence as silent as he had sat down, face monotone and any signs of the past unreadable.
''Yuuri.''
''Boris.''
They acknowledged each other, both participants in a silence now looming, poignant if still no more words had been spoken. It felt recalling and right, not uneasy but serene even if each of them was baring more then they ever could, dwelling in their chest cavities, nestled against their hearts.
The first to move had been Yuuri, his hands turned over, the penetrations of masochism visible to the new set of eyes, looking, roaming over every long scar that would eventually disappear. Then Boris moved his hands as well, reaching out to a tattered one, the contact soft, not callous, bringing it up higher as he slid in closer.
He examined, the ghostly brushing of the tips of his own fingers reassuring, rubbing the mess away till nothing but the contrasting red was left on the pale flesh. Then, he lifted the index, slowly, glancing up at the marine ocean depths staring intently and pressed his lips to the warm skin. Each one he kissed, still gazing, almost amazed to see the faint blush spreading, a spirit inside haven't yet diminished to obsolete, the last bits of innocence, the final shreds lingering.
''I told you I would be your Prince Charming.''
-Ende-
Weird I must say; the ending not further developed like the previous because it leaves it up to your imagination to conclude it. Besides, it leaves it open for me if I choose to go on, again...by random chance.