The routine was always the same, sweat on sweat, dripping, sticking to their skin. It would coat the floor of the broom closet off the old corridor above the Great Hall, where nobody ever walked because there was always the chance a bit of the floor would disappear and one would fall, right through the ceiling. Every single meeting, he crumpled into the other boy's arms, smaller, more wiry, more nimble. He had all the admirable qualities a lover needed, including the ability to stay quiet, a prelude before the song.
Orpheus felt like he could crush Cerulean, right there, with his hands, with his thighs; that slender throat, that amazing voice. Silence was a requirement, and not one he preferred. Many were the nights he mumbled, "I want to make you scream like a banshee, Hargrove," and was never able to fulfill the threat, if only because the redhead couldn't scream for fear of being heard, until recently, and certain objects in the closet still bore his teeth marks.
Now he knew the silencing charm that he should have paid attention to back in third year, and now he knew the very nuance of every groan, whimper, and cry. Every crevice of his body was golden, only slightly changed over the years, darkened from worry.
"You worry too much," Orpheus whispered, and it felt like notes to a song, something he'd never sing, because according to Cerulean, all his songs sounded like the most devilish sex noises strung together for a chorus.
It was implied what Cerulean worried about, his brothers, their lives, their love. He never had enough time for his own life, except here, where time stood still, where their breath mingled in the often crisp air like ice crystals melting together, the same way their bodies melted into one another, hypocritical sweat falling away.
Stupid girls, going and killing themselves, crushing Cerulean's brother in the process, and now he only worried more. The noises he made were louder, and more gutteral this time around, and the way that he behaved was much more seductive. He was frustrated, and taking it out on Orpheus.
Not that the stronger boy minded. Some of the best sex he'd ever had, and usually, the sex was pretty damned good. It felt like music, pounding in his head, and his fingers moved to the rhythm, and with each movement of his fingers, Cerulean made more noise.
"Please," he gasped, and they were the best lyrics ever.