I don't own
In a late night ritual I have grown to love, I sit across from my lover in a warm bath. Through his body is the perfect example of male beauty, it is his eyes that draw my undivided attention. Only a select few with the most morbid of imaginations could possibly fathom the horror and pain that could cause such beautiful eyes to freeze over.
I often stare at them for hours trying to unlock their secrets. But it does no good. The ice wall is impenetrable, held in place by the iron will of it's erector. My only hope is a tiny locked door with rusted hinges.
The key to this door is possessed by a hyperactive black haired child. He is allowed to peer inside for moments before the door snaps shut hiding the secrets that lay beyond. He holds fast to his key and guards it well, respectful of what he sees behind that door.
Respectful or not he is but a child prone to slips of the tongue, consequently knowledge is reveled. Talk of the death of loved ones, rejection from family, the disciplining hands of a tyrant, and sacrifices made with blood creep slowly and almost unnoticed out of that small child. These faint rambles are disregarded by most but I store them, filing them away for my better understanding of my guarded lover encased in ice.
Though I an not allowed access to that door I sneak around the edges probing the small hair line cracks littered near the base of this wall.
In the darkness of night as I lay at his side, whimpers spill from those soft lips. Whimpers from dreams of past pain and heartache. Fingers clench sweat soaked bedding as he fights off enemies known only to him. At these times I long to take him in my arms and rock him like the child he was never allowed to be. When I touch him he wakes, staring me down with those cold eyes. We never speak at these times. I know what I saw and he knows what I saw and it is all we need.
I cherish every glimpse of light that shines through those cracks. Everyone of them gives me a taste of what a full thaw could bring. The passion he displays during a duel whether rejoicing a win or sulking after a defeat are welcomed emotions.
I want nothing more than to be able to watch all his expressions; anger, joy, sadness, and even fear. For anyone who looks closely enough they are there. The smirk on his mouth after a victory, the softness in his eyes as he watches his brother, or the flashes of anger at a defeat.
What I crave the most are the expressions kept for me and me alone. The way his eyebrows take on a life of their own in the heat of passion and how he looks like he might cry when he finally lets go and falls panting to my side.
I want to take a flame thrower to that ice wall and melt it leaving him open and venerable. This I fear, for the resulting flood could drown him; it could drown us both.
This night as I look across the bath water at him I find my courage. "I love you," I whisper.
"I know." He sighs and steps out of the water.
If we both drown, then so be it. I will melt his icy fortress.