Amber; gold streaked with red seared into the rawness of his flesh, their imprints bleeding into the coldness of his veins, a gift, a curse of fire that singes long past the presence of its owner. An obsession, perhaps a desire; he craves it, he needs it—
It is inevitable —as such things tend to be, and should be—, the descent of the one he so detests, tumbling from the cliff thought conquered, fractured, only to find rest in the iron of his palm. That no matter how much the other believes in the frivolous, the fickleness of luck means even those favoured would feel its abandon. When the tides turn in his favour, irony but an added icing, he delivers his strike — precise and devastating, but somehow still not enough to induce a complete surrender.
The other man–, it, seems almost beautiful, finally broken, wings once resplendent limply beating in his grip. He wants nothing more than to tear, to rip that pulse from a throat too delicate to house words that coarse, to feel it dissolve the poison of his tongue (so that perhaps he too, can finally understand what sweetness tastes of), trailing past the vice of his throat, until it unfurls into the hollows of his that know no home.
He wants, needs to see the gold against his own fairness, hateful at how it holds a light that should have been his, unable, unwilling to accept how someone that unworthy can possess the warmth that has forsaken him. The liquid seeps through the resentment of his fingers, trickling until they pool amongst the shadows of his own, invading, intruding, between the spaces of fragments he thought were once whole.
Seizing, gold on brown on gold, a brilliance that softens the harshness of his spite even as he pulls on their fragility, wishing nothing but unkindness as he wills that same radiance into his own being, desperate for that which can finally dissipate the fog he has lost himself in. He waits, for the resistance he has become so accustomed to, for the scorn that precedes a struggle, displeasure growing as his hold tightens in their absence. Scream, shout, yell, like the animal you are— White knuckles press into blooms of scarlet, holding, until their bodies wilt purple, but even then, only silence echoes where acrimony once was. Releasing, he doesn’t know which he is more deafened by.
Enraged, he crushes himself against the passivity of the other’s parted lips, exhaling where he has inhaled so many times before, feeling, his desperation in the stillness, needing the light which he so craves— Amidst the darkness forced into a vessel opposed, a flicker, of the same amber he colours his days with, the one whose glow he enshrouds himself in, insistent until it dyed his faded dispassion with the same hue. Unfocused, they rest in his vicinity; too compliant to stray; too resolute in their detachment. Why, why can’t you just submit— They hitch, not at the ice of his eyes, or the grind of his mouth, but at the tremor of his hinged throat, the flash of a blaze thought smothered reflecting a latent bloodlust of their own— This part of me you will never take.
Insatiate, taunted by the fire resurged, of the red from the defiant tongue; of the red from heated skin; of the red from molten eyes; of the red that has stained his pristine during his conquest, now indelible a failure of a possession reversed. Beneath —where the inferior should remain—, trapped and writhing, in an eternity of torment, fuelled by the fervour of a contempt compounded. He pushes, watching the bound body crumple, folding until angled limbs fill the abyss between; rubbing, bruised bones against strained muscles, accompaniment to the symphony sung by a captive throat choked with the throbbing of his blood. Incapable of being denied, he devours whatever sanctity he touches, feeling it burn in the pits of his chest, pulsating, in asynchronicity to the stuttering of his own, adamant in its desire to hold on to all that is left—
Encircling, pressuring until the other finally falters, a silent cry for forgiveness etched in the tightness of its jaw for a sin compelled. Fluttering, lustre atrophied from wearied gold, kept barely alit by cinders that trail its fall from grace, covering all in the ashes of a splendour now lost. Holding that which now pliantly moulds between the shackles of his arms, he reaches, past the submission of a soul emptied, into the extinguished hollows where hope once took flight, filling, the wilt with shadows that permeate the absence.
Then that part of you I won’t let you keep.