title: Becoming
rating: soft M
warnings: sexuality
pairing: Carlisle/Marcus
The sheets are sun-warmed, the pristine scent of cotton still caught in their creases. Marcus cannot recall the last time something so trivial captured his notice, but he luxuriates like a sated cat in the tangle of cream and amber. His muscles remain ropes, a certain starched stiffness clinging to his smiles, but there is no denying the joy beneath, blinking gold like a coin in riverbank mud.
"Good morning," he says, touching his mouth to his lover's shoulder. The skin there is hard, carrying an aftertaste of hesitation and sweetness. His hopes are pinned on the latter.
Carlisle Cullen—the too-Irish name is foreign in his thoughts and tongue—shifts to face him. His hands clench, as though he has no idea where to put them, and his eyes are the ugly shade of oil burning. Livid and guilty and wild.
"I—I offer my apologies," he says, shaking fingers trying to smooth the tangles in short, gilt hair.
"Why?" The inquiry is dreamy. Free of vehemence. And, oh, he is so certain that it will throw his golden pet off-balance.
"Because my conduct was—unseemly. And it should not be repeated," he whispers, choking on every syllable and tugging at the covers like a child.
Marcus raises a brow and permits the silence to speak for itself. The previous night, all spilled blood and clumsy, questing hands (Carlisle's desperate and sticky and begging), is practically innocent by the standards the Volturi set.
"I cannot be yours," the golden man continues.
His dark-haired companion examines him critically, rumpled and wide-eyed, the memory of teeth all over his skin, and makes a verdict.
"You already are mine," Marcus says. He remembers how easily that word swayed him when Didyme's flower-shaped mouth uttered it.
It has not lost its power. Carlisle may struggle a little, grasping for sinlessness and finding it tainted, but he will give up in time.
Fold himself into Marcus' embrace, miserable and ecstatic and flayed.
Accept rubies for eyes.
Become.