a dark congregation

by lily m.

There was no escape. There was only that mouth locked on his, hungry, demanding. His legs straddled him – so close, so trapped. He moved to his own beat, frenetic, entrancing. Up and down, up and down, and the man could feel him, he could feel every last bit of him, oh God. What was he doing? What were they doing?

He tried to think of how it had begun. It was ridiculously hard to think, all with that tongue guiding him through dances he had never danced before. The wet sound of their kiss breaking was loud in the silent room. And his arms were all around the man's neck, and all he could smell was him, all he could touch was him, and the taste of him lingered in his tongue –

Think. He was trying to think.

Something about Oz Vessalius – young Oz Vessalius, just-turned-sixteen Oz Vessalius, his girlfriend's little brother Oz Vessalius – calling him, telling him they needed to talk immediately, and his voice sounded so desperate and needy and he had to comply, of course.

Something about meeting up with him, and the Vessalius house, so spacious and luxurious, was so dark and no one was in sight, and Oz led him through meaningless corridors, and Oz had yet to look him in the eye, what was going on—

And then Oz held him against the door with his gaze, and his eyes had been too clear in the poorly lit room, and he was shorter than him, it wasn't supposed to happen – but Oz's hands were firm and the pull on the front of his shirt brought him down, down to Oz's lips. And he was so shocked, so taken back, his defenses were shattered, destroyed, thrown to the ground, as he himself slid down against the door, Oz never letting go, as if guiding the taller man through his special set of strings.

And something in him couldn't pull away, couldn't protest, because Oz smelled so good, and his body fit perfectly against his, not too small, not too fragile. And he towered over him, somehow, pulling his hair not too tight, just enough to give him the right angle to ravish his mouth in powerful, passionate kisses.

"Stop," the word barely came out, because Oz hips were moving again, and his chest was pressed so firmly against his that he could almost feel his heartbeats through his thin shirt, his school uniform shirt. "I am— You are—This is wrong."

Oz's smirk was new, eerie, breath-taking.

"Why?"

He was taken back, again. It was supposed to be a self-explanatory question. He wasn't supposed to answer. Oz's thumb ran through his lower lip, and he bit back the urge to lick that finger – where had all those impulses come from? It had never happened before, not even with Ada, never with Ada, because Ada was sweet, and shy, and innocent–

Oz suddenly let out a mock shocked gasp as the man's tongue met his digit – out of its own free will. In truth, the man had no free will anymore. He was all instincts, stimulation, reactions to actions. He swallowed in vain. His self control – what little self control he still had – had to continue the conversation. He tried not to move. He expected Oz to continue. He did.

"Because you're older than me?" His head tilted to the side, cutely. The man could have cursed out loud, if his voice still belonged to him. "Because we're both male?" And he was dangerously close again, hot breath touching the man's ear, making him shiver all over. "Because of my sister?"

"Ada… She…"

"I love my sister."

That crowned the moment. A clock, somewhere in the back, reminded him of the seconds in which he could not find an answer. Oz had stopped moving. The man's heart was still beating furiously against his chest, faster than every second.

"But are you really with her?"

There was no mention of love, of the obligation of commitment. It was a simple question. Are you with her?

Can you see her like you see me?

There was a growl at the back of his throat, and suddenly Oz's back was against the floor, and the buttons on his shirt were no more. His tie was untied, thrown aside, somewhere they didn't care where. And there were marks on unmarred skin, friction that drove them to their edge, and Oz, Oz laughed and moaned and purred his name, over and over and over again.

"Ah, Gil…"

And Gilbert Nightray took his girlfriend's little brother on her bedroom floor.

--

He tried to be invisible. Not to ignore – but to be ignored. Because he wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to hear all the screaming and crying and misery. He wanted to know the aftermath, the next day, the consequences.

Because Oz Vessalius loved his sister.

He tried not to stay too close to her door. It was not his fault his room was close to his sister's – that just happened. Because she was afraid of how dark the hallways were at night, wasn't she? And she wanted her brave brother to stay close and protect her. And she would giggle and call him hero and hug him without him asking to be hugged.

Oz Vessalius never wanted his sister to leave him.

A door opened. He pretended to be looking out the window. Gilbert Nightray's trench coat looked like black wings flapping behind him as he stormed out. Like a dark raven, messenger of the end of days, bringer of his sister's tears. And Ada cried, long, loud, heartbreaking. And when Gilbert passed by Oz, he took one last glance behind – not at the mess he had just walked away from, but at the boy who glanced back at him, out of the corner of his eyes.

A clock ticked somewhere, telling Oz that it didn't even last one second, and then he was gone. A door closed behind him, the echo of his boots, and then the front door – shut.

On that day, Gilbert Nightray walked out of his sister's life.

And all he could think about was the taste of cinnamon that lingered on his lips.

--

Ada wondered where she had gone wrong. Because Gilbert was a fine young man – he was the perfect young man. With good manners and a beautiful smile and a brilliant future ahead of him. And he treated her well, and he liked her, and he kissed her sweetly.

Nothing like the other Nightray, all with his long, dirty blonde hair, and his natural smirk and those odd-colored eyes that seemed to watch her – body and mind – with an attention she did not think she deserved.

And she could be around him, unlike the other brother – because Vincent, he was unpredictable and odd and he always seemed to be hiding something, always with that mysterious aura. And Vincent sat with an air of a tyrant, a tyrant that would keep you in place with words alone, and he would dictate you, and dominate you, and guide you through his own twisted, unknown schemes.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's going to be okay", she heard her brother say, and it sounded so distant, but he was holding her, wasn't he? But all she could do was cry and picture the two Nightray boys, side by side, opposites ends of the same line, calm and unpredictable, sweet and sour, known and unknown, stable and unstable.

And God help her, but Ada was far too gone on the unstable road.

"Everything is going to be alright," her brother reassured her, but he was wrong. He was so wrong, and he didn't even know.

That what Ada had really lost was the hope.

She really didn't have any chance with the normal, did she? She shouldn't have even tried.

And she longed to enter the lair of the Nightrays, and she longed to take the other path – the unknown path, the unpredictable path. Because her mind was already lost in the fog.

Will you take me?

And Ada shed tears for the choice she had already made a long time ago, way before Gilbert Nightray had said yes, and Vincent had said "It's an honor to meet you, Ada Vessalius."

--

And the second time came. And the third. And the tenth. And then he didn't count anymore – because if he slept and awoke on the same bed, so he never left at all. And there was a mysterious feeling about waking up and meeting the same face, the same sleeping face, time after time after time. Gorgeous features one might overlook by the sheer simplicity of it, but people shouldn't underestimate simplicity.

He liked simplicity. How the other's long, dark hair would cover him until his lips took his breath away, and that particular tone of voice, desperate and needy and low and just for him, just for him, calling his name. And in the mornings, how he could wake up first and watch the rise of the other's chest, being so close that he could practically set his own heartbeat to match his. They all seemed petty, ordinary things. But they still gave him that funny feeling in his stomach, that hurt, hurt so much, and he had no idea why.

And then he opened his eyes, lazy, ordinary, two brilliant irises that made Oz wonder if other people's eyes usually shone like that. And because it was too early, because they just did not have the strength to face the world just yet, those long arms would encircle him, and there they would stay, around him.

Oz preferred to take the lead. He liked being on top of him, giving Gilbert sensations only he could give, and no one else, because it was Oz's name that Gilbert called, in between kisses and into his mouth, close to his ear and against his skin, so, so many times. He liked being in control, and control drove Gilbert mad, because he knew Oz led his every move and he didn't mind, because it made Oz scream his name, and laugh a beautiful laugh he had never, never heard anyone else make. And it was all Oz. And neither seemed to mind.

But sometimes, only sometimes, Oz liked being the one being embraced, and the one being hushed, and the one being caressed. Not because he had asked Gilbert to, not because he had led him to, but because this was Gil and Gil was all simple touches and caresses and beautiful words.

And it hurt, it hurt so much. And he didn't know why.

All he knew was that it was better to hurt, hurt so badly that he couldn't even bear, than to feel nothing at all.

Is this what you call…

"Oz."

He didn't even open his eyes.

But he had his answer.