[A/N: 17/50 of the 50Shuffle Challenge and saved for Global Sephesis Day!

Well, I have no idea where this came from… though that little extract from "Don't Say A Word" by the great Sonata Arctica really fits ^^ It's definitely AU though...

Enjoy~! ]

-

Open your blue eyes, tell me that you love me, whore

Make me believe it, oh I know you're lying…

A knock on the thin wooden door shatters the hum of ochre fluorescent strip lights straining to push back the muggy darkness. A smile flits across cold lips, anticipation sweetening the thick air. Dusky shadows hide in corners as the door is pulled open to reveal a slim man leaning against the opposite railing, turquoise gaze gleaming even in the bleaching illumination. He looks slightly nervous but conceals it with a flick of the wrist as he flips auburn hair, limp after the day's oppressive heat, out of his eyes and in the same movement offers his hand to the occupant of the room.

"You called?"

His eyes register surprise when his handshake is refuted and instead the other seizes his wrist to drag him inside, slamming him against the wall. The door is kicked shut, drowning out the redhead's protests and confusion with a hollow rattle. The lights flicker with the impact, disturbing their delicate adorers as moths take to flight in search of a new perch. Below, the redhead pushes away from the wall indignantly, demanding an explanation for his rough treatment, but he is ignored; the other merely stares at him and tells him to be quiet.

"I'm not paying you to talk."

"Like you'd pay me," the redhead snorts, rolling his eyes. The other's emerald gaze flashes and suddenly the redhead is pressed back against the fragile-seeming wall, pinned by his lower arms by a captor of whom all he can see is a silhouette against the harsh lights. He swallows as the shadow leans close, eyes glittering in deeper pools of darkness under his brow. A cloud of warm, mint-scented air drifts into the redhead's face and he sucks it into his lungs, wishing that he could resist this fatalistic weakness yet craving it all the more; lips, cool in the stifling night air, meet his and suddenly the world revolves to their painfully slow rhythm, his thoughts dissipated against the scant pressure. He is helpless, not only mentally but physically; his slim fingers flex at mid-air as he wishes to be free but knows it is unlikely.

It's never a fair fight – though they are almost equal in physical strength, mentally his captor is far superior. There is some strange type of detached intensity about him, something that both attracts and repels the redhead; he is nearly immobilised by the sheer power of his lover, and no matter how much he is hurt, how long it takes for the bruises to fade, he cannot stay away. As he lets go of himself and falls into the burning bliss elicited by the now crushing kiss and the nails digging into his arms, he likens himself to the moths fluttering around the stained ceiling; mortally powered by an insatiable lust for what they know will destroy them.

He just hates it when he looks into those jade eyes and sees nothing.

The thick air swirls with the low hum of the lights and the soft singing of crickets outside under the stars. In some part of his mind, the redhead wishes that he was out there with them, in the beautiful cool night air that never fails to make him feel free; alive. Suddenly the room seems so stifling, the ceiling fan merely stirring the soupy atmosphere rather than serving any conceivable purpose, and he pulls away from his captor with a panicked gasp. That gaze bores into him as he glances away and back, shaking his head in apology.

"I'm sorry, I don't want-"

His words are silenced with a stinging slap that cracks his head back against the wall with a sickening thud, and he cannot keep the cry of pain in. The man restraining him leans his head close and his cold lips hover next to the redhead's ear, fingers tightening menacingly on his arms.

"I don't much care what you do or don't want, Genesis." His name is almost spat out, like a curse or insult, and the redhead forces himself not to flinch. "I'm not making you come here every week… you just can't resist."

Genesis winces a little, as much from the harsh truth of the words as from the harsh bite on his neck. He hates being so hideously dependent on another, especially someone as arrogant as the man almost drawing blood now from his skin; someone who would take advantage of that dependence, flaunt it, make him regret it yet thirst for more. He tries to think of a suitable reply, but his usual quick wit deserts him as ever in this repetition of a well-played scene; he feels the other's amusement in the smirk against his neck, the vicious bite that forces a gasp from his lips.

"You can't change what you are, Genesis."

The redhead swallows again in a vain attempt to wet his mouth, and twists his lips into an almost feral smile. "And what is that, Sephiroth?" He tries to inject the name with as much haughty contempt as Sephiroth had into his, but his nervousness gets the better of him and he fails. The other smirks and moves his mouth back to Genesis' ear, breath tickling pale skin.

"Whore."

The redhead closes his eyes and sends a swift prayer to his Goddess as the steel grip on his arms moves implacably upwards to his shoulders and he is pushed downwards with a force like an unbearable weight settling onto him; he knows what he is expected to do next. Sephiroth's last word rings in his ears, the harsh sound repeating over and over again in its stinging dirge. Stinging, because he knows it is true; he still comes here every week, even knowing what will be waiting patiently, feeling the marks from previous encounters throbbing with each torturous heartbeat; thump, thump, thump, like the sound of his footsteps up the stairs as he walks willingly into this hell. It even haunts his dreams sometimes; the grimy concrete floor covered with scraps of dirt-caked carpet; the burnt-out cigarette butts in corners; the irreparably stained sheets on the bed – but what stalks the night in his head most often is the room's sole occupant, who apparently rents it loyally each week, lurking, like a spider in its dark lair, waiting to pounce on Genesis with eyes glittering and fangs gleaming with venom.

As he kneels there on that floor, trembling fingers silently dealing with the silver zip and button, Genesis thinks to himself that the metaphor is indeed a suitable one; though of course Sephiroth does not have multiple legs and fangs, he is totally in control – the redhead is nothing, a moth caught in the web, a mannequin dancing on strings.

He winces as the long fingers tangled in his hair grip tighter and closes his eyes again, concentrating on his tongue's work and stoically disregarding the pain. He is reminded of the only reason he does this now, as Sephiroth's grip tears at his scalp and he hears the sharp intake of breath and its slow release; this is the only time he can ever make Sephiroth lose even a little of that stony self-discipline, reveal more of himself to Genesis than to any other. The redhead looks up for a second and sees the fleeting glimpse of something just less than contempt – a lot gentler than any emotion he could usually provoke – in Sephiroth's eyes, and somehow it makes up for all the rest. He forces himself to swallow without retching; that had happened once before, near the beginning of these illicit meetings of mere utility rather than any deeper emotion, and Genesis still bears the scars of that disciplining.

A grip that has scored welts into his shoulders and almost torn his hair out by the roots now softens and gently pulls him back up, still against the wall. Genesis withholds a sigh as Sephiroth holds him close, still more as a restraining grip than a tender embrace; the man never relaxes, the fingers that run up and down Genesis' back more like a mechanical rhythm than a sign of affection. But still the redhead gives himself up and falls against the other, daring to reach up to rest his own arms around Sephiroth's lower back as he again shuts his eyes and imagines a different setting; maybe Sephiroth's own residence, to which he never invites Genesis; maybe Genesis' lodgings, to which he never has the courage to invite Sephiroth, afraid of what his reaction to the offer might be.

Silently cradled in the other's arms, Genesis scoffs to himself. He debases himself here regularly; he is totally in the control of this man, and yet he cares what Sephiroth would think of an invitation to his house? Being ridiculed, although unpleasant, is hardly unusual when he is with Sephiroth; why on Gaia should he give a damn what the man thinks, or what new insult he might unleash? He shakes himself to chase away such ridiculous thoughts, and Sephiroth shifts to look down on him.

"What's wrong?" The silky voice sounds concerned, yet Genesis can hear through the lie; Sephiroth doesn't truly care about his wellbeing. He never does.

The redhead shakes his head and refuses to look up, a shiver of anxiety creeping into his core for no reason that he can quite discern. "I don't know, nothing…"

Sephiroth pushes him away a little and the unease hardens into real worry as the taller man's fingers once more close around his arms and grip tighter and tighter, denting the pale skin with sheer force. "You don't know?"

Genesis looks up now, and suppresses a thrill of fear as he stares into Sephiroth's hooded eyes, filled with dangerous zeal.

"Or did you just realise how afraid you are of me?"

Genesis laughs, trying desperately to conceal his sudden terror with levity; but even to his ears, the mirth sounds a mockery of real amusement. "Afraid? Of you? That's…"

He realises his mistake as one of Sephiroth's hands disappear for a moment to return holding something long and silver, glinting in the humming lights. His mouth goes dry and he opens it to speak, but it is suddenly stifled with Sephiroth's. He feels a sharp stab of pain and looks down as far as he can without moving his head to see the needle protruding from his wrist, some clear liquid escaped down onto his hand; but though he can see the trickling fluid on his skin, he can't feel it. He realises with sick dread that he can't feel anything at all, and when Sephiroth's lips leave him for the last time he cannot stop himself slumping to the ground.

As his vision flickers and fades like an old film, he sees Sephiroth lean close and hears him whisper something.

"You should have been afraid."