Closer by Nine Inch Nails
Stein wants Spirit Albarn.
The word is not enough on its own but it is the best thing he has. When his blood flares hot under his skin, when he can't think of anything but Spirit's mouth and Spirit's body and Spirit's breathing, it is the best he can force past lips gone numb with desire. Language isn't enough to express himself; far better to pin Spirit to a wall, to dig his fingers into Spirit's hair or hard into his skin, to scrape along Spirit's mouth or neck with his teeth and let his body do the talking for him. Spirit never resists. The weapon goes pliant under these attacks, dropping his weight back against the wall, tipping his head sideways to grant Stein better access to his skin, sighing his condensing breath along Stein's cheek or shoulder as the meister tries to explain himself with hands and tongue rather than with voice and words.
Stein can escape himself at those times. When he presses his fingertips into the soft give of Spirit's waist, he can ignore the itch to destroy in his hands. When he drags his teeth along the taut skin over Spirit's collarbone, he can forget the violence lurking under his smile. When he grinds his hips against Spirit's thigh, he can turn off the unique insanity of his brain for the more ordinary pulse of desperate desire.
And then there's Spirit. Responsive, willing, gasping against Stein's skin and trailing his hands across Stein's back and flushing warm and alive at Stein's touch until Stein feels like Spirit is the only one of the two of them that is breathing, that he is just an extension of the weapon, borrowing the other boy's life and vitality to worship him.
Stein is not religious. Stein has never found the idea of god comforting, has never thought the idea of an omnipotent Father was particularly worth his time. Spirit, flawed and human and perfect, is a god that Stein can worship. When Spirit whimpers into the curve of Stein's neck it sounds like a prayer. When Spirit's eyes dilate with pleasure and he gasps a stuttering breath of climax, it feels like scripture. When Spirit is languid and smiling after, when Spirit is sprawled across their bed, when Spirit's lips curve into Stein's skin, it is absolution. In those moments Stein can close his eyes and let the still comfort of satisfaction pool in his bones, let the comfort of perfection stretch itself down his veins and into his bloodstream.
Spirit makes Stein over again, turns him whole and complete and sane while they are together. Stein can pour his madness, his loneliness, his hurt into the weapon and Spirit heals him into something better than he is alone.