In this time and space, I could swear the world around me was at peace. This moment, this very perfect moment as his eyes close and his head tilts to the side and the pale expanse of neck is exposed and the knife cuts perfectly. Nothing is as beautiful as his blood, staining the pure white of his skin. He no longer fights it, but accepts it, yearns for it, for he is in the paradox. It has saved him and he no longer hurts, but is further convinced of my love for him. If anything, he would be even worse off if I stopped, if I treated him like most people treat the ones they love. But that is not real love. It is the prepackaged, neatly wrapped bullshit that people convince themselves is real. This was real, this blood and this pain were real. We had this, all they had were words, pretty words that rolled of the tongue and straight onto the floor. Meaningless.
"Again?" I inquire, as I heal the deep cut that I had just made. He is surprisingly compliant today. He usually hates when I go for his neck. But today he tilted his head back and begged for it. And I know he has fallen. The paradox has won.
"Please, Severus, please," He begs, and I cannot tell if this plea is for mercy or for more. Despite what people say, I love him and do not want to hurt him unnecessarily. For most of the pain I inflict is quite necessary.
"Please, what?" I ask, sweetly, running the flat of the blade along his pale expanse of chest.
"Another," he moans, "another," he gasps. I smile, kiss him sweetly on the lips, and pull away.
"As you wish," I intone, dragging the blade from his sternum down to his belly button before pulling it away. He groans and I know it is a groan of pleasure as his throbbing erections is thrust up into my hip. I smile again, more deviously than before. We both enjoy the sight of his blood brimming up around the wound and spilling out on either side of his lean body, running down his sides and pooling in the sheets around him. He smiles at me, brilliant green eyes, glittering. I forget to breathe.
"I love you, Sev," He whispers, as I heal the long cut, enough to stop the bleeding and pain, but leaving a long white scar so he never forgets this moment. This perfect moment, when he loved me so much that he let me do this to him. Should he ever want to leave, he will always remember these moments. I examine the scars from the past and run my fingers over them.
"Always," I whisper, staring at him intensely. He nods, grabbing my wrist and pulling me down for a searing kiss.
His body screams for release and I want to give it to him but I feel his exhaustion rolling off him in waves. He needs to rest, I will make love to him later. I will take him slowly without the blood between us and I will kiss and lick each and everyone of his scars so he knows that with this blade, I love him. But for now, he will sleep and heal and when he wakes up he will smile at me and tell me that he loves me. I will make him breakfast and he will go to work and when he gets home I will make him dinner. We will read in bed, maybe make love once or twice, then turn out the lights and go to sleep. The perfect picture of domesticity. Except for the scars that betray are secret. That we are lost, we are in the paradox.
I look down at him, he is sound asleep and flaccid, too exhausted to ask me for any physical release. His feathery raven hair is splayed across his cheek. He no longer has nightmares. I kiss him on the forehead and leave for the bathroom, leaving the bed and the blade and the boy behind, leaving the paradox. But I am not naive, I know that in a few nights we will return to those things. The paradox will consume us again.