Warning: Artemis/Butler; PG-13-R
5. Green (465)
The silk sheets twist around him as he tumbles and turns on the bed, moaning and crying into his pillow. He dreams of Butler. Of Butler's hands and touch and warmth and eyes and shaved scalp and thin lips. Thin lips wrapped around him like that boy from school's lips had been wrapped around him, all so long ago in time and space and memory.
He dreams of wet lies, of smooth factuality. He dreams of heat and depth and saviour. He dreams of life, and death, and wishes. He dreams of dreaming sane dreams.
He dreams of impossibility and protective arms. He dreams of smooth teasing kisses, like most would never imagine that Butler would be able to give, but Artemis knows that he can, would; he knows of, has seen for all his life, Butler's soul… And he takes comfort in it.
And he dreams. Not only in the night, in the relative safety of his bed. But in the day also, in reality, wishing that he'd come back.
He wakes and his sheets are soaked with sweat and semen, sticking to the hairs on his legs and forearms.
Angeline knocks at his door. Artemis's eyes open in a way that shows that he would do anything to keep them shut for a little while longer, to sustain the illusion by shutting out the world for just a minute more.
A rim of discoloured white, almost yellow, shot through with red, surrounds the blue of his eyes. And around that is deep shadows, looking like bruises.
"Church in 25 minutes, Arty, dear." Angeline calls through the door. "Get ready."
And of all the things she could have said, it has to be one of the two that have the power to stir him from his solitude.
He showers, trying his very best to think of nothing at all. He dresses, trying not to remember the time when he'd laughed at Butler for looking as if he was a stone pillar that had been wrapped around with dark cloth. He straightens, and tries to forget how long it was since he'd last stood tall of his own volition.
It's a beautiful church, with sandstone walls and rose-coloured stained glass windows beside the confessional box. But the carpet is ugly, a patterned tan on which the ancient pews stand like displaced art.
He doesn't listen to the sermon, to the idiotic man droning on in a boring tone. But he wishes, he hopes, and that's his form of prayer.
He wants Butler to be found.
He notices that it's the 13th Sunday in ordinary time; the priest is wearing green. He takes offence. Don't they all know that now, this moment, is far, far from ordinary.
He's just figured out how to get Butler back.
