Le Petit Mort
He will like this place.
Gently, you set him down onto the grass and push his long silver fringe away from his face. His hair, and the front of his shirt, is drenched with blood. You always know he will end up with suicide, but you never know you will be there when that happens. You never know you will actually be there, seeing him hold the knife to his neck the way he had done so many times to his brother's, and cut down. You never know you will be there allowing him to do that, leaving you to hold his rapidly cooling body as he dies.
You never know a lot of things, they just happen.
The sun shines warmly down on the both of you, warming his dead skin with its heat, giving him the illusion of life. You brush your fingers lightly over his face, trailing over the closed eyelids, wishing that they will open and smile at you.
Your fingers falter. Maybe you should stop this, knowing what you are going to do if this goes on. But his skin feels so warm in the sun, his hair reflecting the light like the moon. His face is pale, but then again, isn't he always? Maybe, if you close your eyes, you can pretend. Maybe if you imagine, the dampness on his shirt is not blood. Leaning forward, you press your lips onto his and gently nudge them apart-- something you have wanted to do for the longest of time.
His lips taste sweet, just as you imagine them to be, except for the slight bitter tinge of blood. But it's alright. What else can you expect anyway? You are kissing Delilah's Card of Death.
You chuckle, and move your weight to press your body against his, feeling the hard flesh under your own. Your eyes remain close. You don't want to wake up and find that this is all a dream, to find out that the hardness under you is simply dead flesh. You smile against his lips and kiss him again, running your fingers down his chest, undoing the buttons on the once white shirt.
The bare skin feels good under your hands. You leave them there for a while longer, and let the heat from your palm gradually warm him up. This may be the most sinful thing you have done ever since you joined the organisation, but how can something that feels this good, this right, this sensual ever be wrong?
You breathe against his lips and move up to his ears. "I love you,"
you whisper, nibbling lightly on the shell-shaped ear. "I love you,"
you whisper again, a little louder this time, afraid that he may not have heard
you.
The wind catches at his long hair and allows it to tickle at the small of your back. Casually you shrug out of your shirt and press back against him again, enjoying the heavenly sensation of his hair against your skin, as if those are his fingers, tickling you, caressing you, the way lovers do.
Your eyes
are still closed. Don't see, just feel.
You can almost hear him say. Silently, you obey his orders. You always do. Anything to please him... your fallen lord, your devoted lover,
your sinfully beautiful God of Death.
Let these lips be my prayers to you, let these hands worship you the way you
deserve, let this unworthy knave lay prostrate before your altar and love you.
You feel the tightening of your loins, the little death you want to avoid, the
whiteness that will join you both more closely than any ritual will, yet the
one that will separate you more distinctly than any barbed wired fence. You
fear this separation, but yearn for this joining more keenly than ever.
Bright lights exploded behind your lids, forcing them apart. In that moment,
you see before you the whites and reds against the soft green grass. You kiss
his lips again. Illusion broken, they are as cold as the hands of death. The
wind stops. All is silent. As silent as the grave.
Hot tears against cold skin. That's all that is to it.
+End+