Morality is to Blame
He tells himself it's for the good of the team. Prays his conflicting morals will be pushed back several hours more. His method of confrontation behind closed doors is a weakening wall of self-respect with each passing session. His friends cannot find out, they will not find out. A reincarnation of a rivalry borne from one part hate and two parts lust. Milky-white skin trembles with psychological warfare as two bodies, two mouths collide and seek a reason to trust.
Squeezing his fingertips until the skin under his nails is completely drained of blood, he shuts his emerald-green eyes as the other man slides his chest against his back, skin moist with perspiration. With one hand on his hip, holding him in place against the groin of the other, crimson eyes glaze over as five fingers caress the smooth planes of a taut stomach. The timbre of his voice is a low thrum that plucks at the boy's bleeding heart and begs to lick it dry.
The boy starts to rise.
Red hair clashes with black as the Storm Hawk is pulled back down onto the mattress and restlessness is satiated with a heavy sigh against the hollow of his throat. Resuming the standard position, pale lips whisper an illicit groan when hips start to grind. In a familiar gesture that warrants no explanation, the youth reaches around to make sure his lover is there.
This is real. This is sex.
Whatever 'this' is, whatever they share cannot be summed up in two simple words. What started as a dare spirals into an uncontrollable system of confrontation that neither one of them wants to break. The lights are always on when they retire for bed; there is more satisfaction here than the redhead dares to admit. Sometimes it's tender, more often it's violent, but it is always pleasurable.
Time means nothing to the Talon. He arrives when beckoned and departs in the morning leaving both the sheets and the boy in a rumpled state of undress. Brushes his teeth in the adjacent bathroom and just before he sneaks out into the hallway to fly back to Cyclonia, destroys the boy's integrity once again for a searing kiss and a grope.
A promise against his lips to come again in two nights and the black-haired man is gone. The Sky Knight locks his door, his chest heavy with emotion, and picks up the sheets – tosses it into the can.
The affair starts and ends with him; Aerrow is full of shame. The evidence in this room is not the Dark Ace's mess to clean up. It never has been.