Pairing: m/f/m, m/m, m/f
A sinister Pygmalion story. So when she's done with Katsumi and he can't stand to be touched anymore, he grabs her and buries his aching dick inside her, dripping, always dripping and fucks her hard, biting at her lips, staring into her pale grey eyes, her red hair like an uncoiled ball of yarn; with strands Katsumi is wrapping and unwrapping around his fingers. Like she's tying them together.
Warning(s): threesome, sex, incest, disturbing themes
Author’s Notes: This was meant to be a magical paintbrush story, but it somehow became a sinister version of a Pygmalion story and full of self-indulgent threesome oral porn. I still count it a win. Thanks to Angela for being awesome. Title from the song 'Landscape' by Florence and the machine. Written for smut_fest.
Word Count: 7.277
Disclaimer: Do know, do own, still not real
The parcel arrives on a Wednesday afternoon, handed over to some aunt or another, and forgotten for the next few days. As Chris discovers it lying on a table by the door, he can barely look at it. His name is scrawled across the front with bright green marker, because that was probably the first pen Alan had found in his hurry to get it done, get it to the post-office, get it sent, and to Chris. It's a small thing, longish and contains, well Chris has no idea. The stamp says it was sent one day before Alan died. He clutches it until it makes a funny sound and then relaxes his hand. He doesn't want to damage whatever is inside, because it's the last thing he'll ever get from Alan. He is sure it's something either thoughtful or hilarious, because his brother had a fondness for these things and- he takes a deep breath. It's hard to deal right now. It's so fucking hard to deal and there are all these people here. All these people that are family and friends, but no one knew Alan like Chris did, no one can understand what he is going through and he needs to get out of here. Needs to be alone.
“What?” his father asks and his voice is nearly gone. His mother only stares at him. He feels like shit. It's the truth, because they just lost a son and now he's moving out.
“I'm moving out.”
“Chris,” his mother starts and he cuts her off because he can't deal with this.
“I can't be here,” he says and doesn't say that he can't be around them and in the house, because she has the same pale blue eyes Alan had and because dad's voice reminds him of Alan's and everyone wants to know how he feels. Like shit or not even that, he feels empty and angry and numb. Devastated. Alone. All. The. Time.
“Chris,” his father says in his 'be reasonable/why can't you be more like your brother' voice.
“I can't be here. Everything reminds me of him. I can't eat, because he made me paint on the wall behind the freezer. I can't sleep because -” he stops and takes a deep breath. “I can't be here,” he says again.
“Where are you going?”
“I'm gonna stay at Kate's.”
“She lives three states away,” his mom answers. Dad gives him a nasty look.
“Yes,” and that's why he's going to stay with her. Well, at her apartment while she's studying aboard. He doesn't tell them that part.
“Your mind is made up about it already,” she says.
He nods, she knows him well enough. “My things are in the car.”
“Are you going to call?” dad asks.
“Not for a while,” he answers because it makes no sense to lie about that. He won't answer their calls either. Mom's maybe. But he doesn't make any promises. His mom looks crestfallen and worried sick. “I'll write you e-mails from time to time, okay?” He can do that. It's impersonal enough if you want it to be.
“Take care,” she answers and gets up to hug him.
Dad does the same, but Chris can feel his resentment. It doesn't matter. Alan told him once that it isn't their job to make their parents happy or proud. It's their job to make themselves happy and proud. He's going to try and do that.
The key is at the neighbour’s like Kate said. (“I showed them a picture so they know it's nothing fishy.”). The boy who hands it over is only wearing boxers and a thin t-shirt.
“Oh, so you're Chris,” he says and then turns to fumble around for the key. Chris has no idea what to say, but the guy doesn't seem to want an answer. He hands the key over after a minute or so and smiles. “Take care of her plants. She's terrible with this stuff.” His smile is small, but reaches his eyes and makes his whole face that little bit prettier.
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
“You are welcome,” he replies and it's strangely formal enough to make Chris blush a bit.
He throws his luggage (not much in the first place, she does have a washing machine) at the foot of the bed and then lies on the floor just staring at the ceiling. He's been here before. He's been here before when Alan was doing an internship in Scotland and writing weird drunken letters that made both him and Kate laugh so fucking hard. Both of them lying here and clutching each other reading Alan's words out loud, puzzling over meanings and spelling mistakes. Chris has all the letters. All the things that were reminders of his brother's dorkiness before are now memories. Mementos. Painful to look at.
He sighs and closes his eyes. He'll be okay. He'll be okay; with time, he'll be okay, because that's how life works, that's how they are designed to be.
They boy next door is called Katsumi and Kate used to cook for him on Fridays. He finds the note that tells him to take care of that duty on his second day in her apartment, pinned to the fridge under a sketch of a dead bird he made for her last summer. It's a Wednesday. He has no idea what Katsumi even likes to eat and he wants to punch Kate for making him take care of another human being when he doesn't even want to take care of himself. She's a cunning woman.
He decides to make Pierogi because it's something he can do in his sleep and is so mindless that he can let his mind wander on its own.
“So, Kate made you take care of me, hmm?” Katsumi asks standing in the door.
“Seems so, you wanna come in?” Chris steps aside and Katsumi smiles at him. Slow and kind of happy. He follows Chris into the kitchen like this is his own apartment. Chris bets Katsumi knows it better than Chris does.
“So, you know Kate long?” Chris wants to know, or maybe he doesn't; maybe he’s only trying to make awkward conversation here. He used to be so much better at this before-.
“You know, you don't have to,” Katsumi says.
“Do this. I can take care of myself. I know she doesn't believe it. But I can do it.”
“It doesn't bother me,” Chris answers, maybe it's a lie. He isn't sure.
“I'm a total stranger and you made me dinner because a girl asked you to.”
“She's a good friend. You seem to be close to her. She-” he bites his lip. He doesn't want to talk about how they were childhood friends and how Alan used to tease them all the time and how that one time- he doesn't want this. “Eat up.”
Katsumi gives him a long look and then takes another bite. “This is good.”
The parcel has been laying on the desk since the day Chris arrived at the apartment. Unopened. It mocks him every freaking day. If Kate were here she would make him face whatever is inside. He takes a deep breath on a Monday afternoon and peels the paper back, opens the carton, puts the note that is inside away and takes the object out. It's a brush. Shiny dark wood with marks that look like designs and teeth-marks alike. The bristles are really soft. Good for water-colours and ink he thinks. It's a freaking thoughtful gift and unnecessary too, because Chris has of course at least thirty brushes. The brush feels smooth all over. No coarse spot can be found under his fingertips. It looks new, but it doesn't feel like it and then there are the teeth-marks that should be felt, but are forming a smooth surface nevertheless.
Chris is sure that's why Alan bought it in the first place. It's alien, it's strange and it reminded him of Chris.
He grabs the bottle of whisky Kate keeps under the bed, takes out his paints, grabs a sheet of paper and a water-glass and dips the brush in.
Her face looks familiar, the dark red hair like string, strands of blood weaved together to form perfect locks. She's surrounded by water, dark and ancient looking. He runs his finger over her bottom-lip, not touching the still wet paper. Something is missing. He just doesn't know what yet. She is nearly perfect, but not quite. The way her lips curve, the way he can't make out her eyes fully, because there is hair everywhere falling into her face, the way her collarbone looks exactly like Alan's. He sighs and puts the brush aside. He's too tired to look at her.
When he wakes up he feels like a part of him is missing. He has a headache and the sun is glaring into the room which makes everything so much more painful. He looks over to the desk. Something is on top of it that wasn't there last night. Looks like a hand.
“Finish me,” she says.
He closes his eyes and counts to ten. This isn't real. Her laughter makes him look at the desk again. A pale hand with long fingers is beckoning him closer. The water is dripping down the desk to the floor. “Finish me, Chris, please finish me,” she says softly. He can't see her face from here so he sits up and leaves the bed. Her arm is definitely coming out of the frame. Her eyes are moving and the hair and the dark water are mixing and dripping, dripping, dripping the colour of unruly water.
“I'm so fucking drunk...” he mumbles, but takes the brush in hand.
“Make me beautiful,” she says.
“You could never be anything else,” he answers her nearly out of his mind. He wonders if it hurts or tickles when he sets the brush to her face, her fingers, her collarbone. The part that isn't there, that can't be seen, that is the problem he realises. He needs to finish her.
“Just imagine it, the rest is kid's play,” she whispers.
So he strokes the water with the brush, making it deeper, making it drip, and imagines the way her legs and toes have to look, her hips and stomach, her bellybutton, ribs, underarms, the space between her shoulders, that she has a birthmark under her left breast. The pale pink of her nipples.
When he's done he puts the brush aside and watches as she steps out of the paper. Toes, ankles, legs, fingers clawing her way out until she's standing in front of him. Pale and slender, soft-looking red hair and dripping dark-blue water onto the floor.
“Chris,” she says, reaching out and stroking his cheek. Her fingers are wet and cold.
“I've gone insane, right?”
“Maybe,” she answers with a smile. Even that smile, the shape of her lips, he thinks. “You made my body boyish,” she adds, stepping closer, intertwining her fingers behind his neck. His shirt is getting wet from her still dripping body. Her eyes are more grey than blue and it's an unexpected relief. She could be enough, he thinks as she kisses him. She could be everything that Alan couldn't be.
He doesn't leave the apartment for four days after that.
She kisses like she wants to devour him whole. There is barely anything tender about her. Her skin is soft, but her body, the muscles underneath, are hard and coiled, ready to strike.
“You made me beautiful,” she whispers into his ear as she strokes his cock with her long slender fingers. The nails biting just a bit, just the right amount of not-pain, to spike the pleasure. He can feel her nipples against his chest, hard and rubbing with every stroke of her hand.
He has no idea how to answer her. Of course, of course she couldn't be anything other than beautiful; because she's made in the image of the person he loved the most. “Chris,” she says in that whinny commending tone. “Come on, touch me.”
His hand trembles as he touches it over her stomach and between her legs. She's wet and her thighs are damp from sweat as he slides a finger inside. She pushes into his hand. Her fingers tightening around his dick, the other hand clawing at his shoulder. He wants to bite her throat and mark her up, but he just kisses her arm instead, mouths at her skin as he slides another finger in.
“Greta,” he whispers and she bites his shoulder as she comes. He slips out of her and curls his wet fingers around her hand, he needs to come so badly now. And her breath in his ear, the way her hair is all over his body like red strings pinning him down, like he's Gulliver, doesn't make him feel less desperate for it. For her.
She bites absentmindedly at her skin, licking her fingers as she's reading something or other on his laptop. The fleshy part of her palm looks shiny from spit and the skin around her wrist is a bit bruised like she sucked too hard on it and just didn't notice. He can't look away from her. He is well aware that this isn't normal and that before she stepped out of the wet paper he had a life that wasn't built around the many ways there are to make her come, to worship her body, the ways she makes him hard.
The doorbell makes him look up and she stops licking her fingers and glances in the door's direction as well.
“Well?” she says.
“I have no idea,” he answers.
“We have a guest how very exciting,” she turns around and he can see the finger-shaped bruises he left on the inside of her thighs two days ago.
“You need to put on clothes,” he answers, getting up, but he doesn't mean it. The bell rings again just as he opens the door.
“Hey,” Katsumi says. His voice is always soft like he was scolded as a child one time too often for being loud.
“Oh hey,” Chris forgot that it was Friday. To be honest he had no idea what day it was at all..
“It doesn't smell like food,” Katsumi observes.
“I was busy,” Chris answers.
“Painting?” Katsumi asks his gaze flickering to Chris' nails.
“Fucking,” Greta says from behind him. She curls a hand around his waist and reaches out with the other. “Hi, I'm Greta,” she says and Katsumi shakes her hand after a surprised look.
“Katsumi. I live next door.”
“What was that about food?” she asks, her fingers stroking him, she is pulling Katsumi into the apartment without him really realising it.
Greta doesn't eat, doesn't drink, but she likes to put things into her mouth. Likes to lick and suck and graze her teeth against too sensitive skin. Sometimes Chris wonders if it's her or just a trait he imagined as he drew her, a trait he always suspected Alan had (the way he bit his pencils, the ever present smell of candy on his breath, sucking on his fingers when he spilled something, smoking when he was younger or drunk).
Watching her licking and biting her way down Katsumi's torso makes him hot and kind of hungry. The way he arches under her mouth, her tongue, her lips makes him want to taste his skin, his sweat, everything he didn't know he would be interested in.
He grabs Katsumi's hand without really thinking about it as Katsumi gets up and makes to get out of the bed.
“Bathroom,” Katsumi answers, there are teeth-marks and bruises on his shoulder and along his sides, leading a path from his neck, following his spine down. Some of them Chris put there.
“Come back,” he whispers and makes himself let go.
Katsumi nods without looking at him. He looks fragile during night hours.
“He'll come back,” Greta says from beside him. He can feel her hand creeping up his leg, curving around his hip, stroking, her breath hitting the sensitive skin under his ear as she speaks, whispers into his flesh. “He can't not,” she adds, biting down gently. He has no idea how long Katsumi has been here, he has no idea what day it is. Her hand reaches to his dick and he moans.
“There are things...” he tries, because there are things, things that people do, but he can't really remember.
“Yeah?” she asks, mouthing his shoulder, her other hand carding through his messy hair. He has no idea when the last time was he even showered.
“I know what you want,” she interrupts and he believes her. He turns so he can see her face, kiss her and feel her laugh on his lips.
“Yeah,” he answers and the things slip away again.
The soft footsteps make him turn around again. Katsumi's standing near the bed watching, hunger in his eyes and he's so beautiful in the pale moonlight flittering through the window, so beautiful Chris' fingers itch for a pen.
“Sit up,” Greta says, reaching over to grab Katsumi's wrist. She pulls and he falls onto his knees. Hard. It'll bruise, but he has so many reminders of their touch that it hardly makes a difference anymore. Chris sits and spreads his legs because what else is there to do when she has Katsumi on his knees for Chris. He leans down, cups Katsumi's face in his hands, kisses his lips, tastes tap-water. It's sweet and he pulls Katsumi closer, searches the taste in his mouth and only lets go when he feels like he's going to suffocate. He slides his fingers into Katsumi's dark brown hair and guides him to his dick. He's never asked Katsumi if he's done that before, if he's been with a guy, if he's sucked cock, if he likes to be fucked. That wasn't their relationship before, but before hardly matters anymore. Now he doesn't care, because Katsumi doesn't seem to care either. It's like nothing exists outside of this apartment.
Greta slings her arms around his waist just as Katsumi's lips touch his dick. She squeezes a bit too hard, rests her head on his shoulder to watch. Her skin is damp, but then her skin usually is. When Katsumi takes Chris dick into his mouth for the first time Chris pulls him in too hard, too fast and Katsumi makes a sound that isn't pleasure at all.
“Don't choke him,” Greta chides softly, but he can't make himself let go, her fingers slide down his chest, cup Katsumi's cheek, glide over Chris' fingers and stroke softly, gently until he intertwines them with hers and lets go of Katsumi.
Katsumi doesn't back off; he takes a few seconds to breathe carefully and then starts sucking again. Greta doesn't let go of Chris' hands. She whispers filthy encouragement against his ear and he isn't sure for whose benefit it is, but it makes him lose it fast, too fast and he doesn't even think about uttering a warning before he comes. Katsumi doesn't manage to swallow everything and Greta leans over, licks him clean and pulls him into bed with them.
Chris feels exhausted. He can't remember the last time he ate.
Every time he wakes up from dreamless sleep he finds her beside him, finds her entwined with Katsumi, sees her licking Katsumi's throat, bite at his collarbone, his hipbone, sees her sucking his fingers, his dick, his balls. Wakes up to the feel of Katsumi shivering against him, pushing into his skin, his body, his hand. They are only a turn, a small decision who to kiss first, whose lip to bite, who to make moan first, away.
He's progressing, they're progressing, falling, but he doesn't know where to, how hard the impact will be and he doesn't seem to make himself care about the consequences. If there are any he doesn't know about them. And those he knows about all end in orgasms, his, Katsumi's, hers.
Just watching Katsumi fall apart under Greta's tongue, licking him open, making him restless, making him beg and scream so that Chris has to shut him up with his mouth, his fingers (he has bite-marks on two), his palm. Whispering how good he looks, sometimes Chris can't even find the words for how Katsumi looks. Desperate and drenched in sweat. Begging to be touched.
When he sees her spreading his legs for better access, so she can kiss and lick all the secret places that aren't a secret to her anymore, he wants to fuck them so badly it hurts. It feels like his heart is going to explode from the stress of holding back. He could, he thinks, but he can't, doesn't want to, part of him doesn't think he's ready.
So when she's done with Katsumi and he can't stand to be touched anymore, he grabs her and buries his aching dick inside her, dripping, always dripping and fucks her hard, biting at her lips, staring into her pale grey eyes, her red hair like an uncoiled ball of yarn; with strands Katsumi is wrapping and unwrapping around his fingers. Like she's tying them together.
The water doesn't make his head clearer in any way. The images and aftershocks are buried in his brain as if they were burned into the surface. Like etching on wood.
“You,” Katsumi whispers touching his back, just under his shoulder blade where Greta sucked a circle of kiss-marks. They feel tender to the touch. He isn't even surprised Katsumi followed him into the shower. It's like he can't leave and Chris knows that feeling, knows it should scare him. Chris grabs blindly behind him and as he finds skin he pulls Katsumi against his body. He's naked, because they all are. All the time. And he's half-hard, but so is Chris.
Katsumi licks his neck and Chris rests his head against the cool tiles of the shower. He lets go of Katsumi's hip to brace himself, make his body feel more balanced, more stable in the slippery shower.
The water is warm and tastes sweet, but he's shivering anyway. Katsumi's tongue feels hot and his body, pressed so close to Chris', is feverish. Katsumi sighs against his skin, the breath makes Chris moan and bury his head against his arms. He has no idea what Katsumi wants, he has no idea what he wants, but he knows whatever, whatever it is he's just going to roll with it. There are still things they haven't done and Chris is aware enough of the world he's living in that he won't possibly enjoy all if it, but maybe here he's willing to try.
“Katsumi,” he moans when Katsumi scraps his teeth along his shoulder, kisses his arm, pushes closer, so that Chris is pressed nearly completely against the tiles. He can feel Katsumi's ribs against his back, the sharp curve of his hip. He's so thin and fragile looking. Chris' dick is leaking and he just wants to turn around and press against Katsumi's warm body, to rut or push him down onto his knees and make him suck Chris' dick or use his fingers, just something. Anything.
“You,” Katsumi repeats letting his dick slide against Chris' back slowly, rhythmically, tortuously.
“You play with me,” he whispers into Chris' neck. “You like to watch...” he bites softly that spot just where skull meets spine that makes Chris shiver and moan. “She's eating us alive,” he sounds between alert and scared and turned on.
She is, Chris thinks, and it's not the first time it occurs to him, but right now it's at the forefront of his head – just behind the mad desire. Like he needed to hear someone else saying it, so it would sink in, so it would make him scared.
“Katsumi,” she says and Chris moans as Katsumi startles and pushes his hips too hard into Chris. He can feel her presence in the bathroom, it doesn't matter that he can't see her.
“Greta,” he says helplessly.
“I've got you,” she answers softly. He knows that, he knows. “Come on. I want to watch you come.”
And he can do that, he wants to come for her, too. Everything else is slipping from his mind and judging by the harsh rhythm Katsumi is setting, rutting against his ass, he feels the same way.
He wakes to pale spring sunshine, which is so unusual he thinks. It feels like he was alive only at night recently. A twilight world made up of hunger and desire. He can feel Katsumi beside him, the warm, bony, thin body. His breath, his fingers curled loosely around Chris' hip. He slips out of the bed to the bathroom. He is thirsty and he needs to piss. He glances at Greta's sleeping face on his way out and then stops in his tracks. The paper is still lying on the desk, the water in the glass gone, remnants of colour pigments clinging to the sides. The brush is lying beside it. He grabs the glass on impulse and takes it with him to the bathroom.
There was a time he could paint, draw, sketch Alan's face every second of every day without thinking about it. Now he has trouble concentrating, remembering how Alan's eyebrows looked, how his lips used to curl up, how his nose wrinkled, the exact colour of his eyes. The shape of his fingernails, how his hair used to fall into his face. The impatient way he brushed it behind his ear.
The pencil snaps between his fingers and he lets go of the pieces, stares at the sketch that isn't his brother, isn't even good. He crumbles it up and throws it in the direction of the trash can. He misses.
“What are you doing?” Katsumi asks. Chris didn't hear him get up, he was so absorbed in what he was doing.
“Nothing,” he answers frustrated.
“You're tense and you're out of bed and it's light outside, Chris,” the way Katsumi says his name makes him shiver. It didn't used to be that way. It's like a Pavlovian effect. He leans into Katsumi's body without thinking about it.
“Greta's sleeping,” Chris hears himself say and has no idea what he even means.
“Yeah, she'll be awake soon,” there is something in his voice that makes Chris turn the chair around. Katsumi's biting his lip. And there are new bruises on his shoulder and around his neck, the hollow of his elbow, the tender skin of his wrist. Just seeing them in daylight makes Chris hard.
He reaches out and tangles his fingers in Katsumi's chin-long shaggy soft hair. Katsumi inhales sharply, leaning away and there is a second in which Chris is ready to let go, but then she says from the bed: “Go on, I know you want to. I want to see you make him take it,” and he pulls Katsumi in and down to his knees. Greta doesn't tell him this time not to make Katsumi choke. A part of his brain is concerned about it, the rest of him is excited.
Something about the lips, he thinks. Something about his lips. He runs a finger over his own lip and tries to remember the shape. People used to say their lips looked similar. Maybe it's even true.
“The colour?” Katsumi asks. His voice sounds wrecked. Greta made him scream again last night.
He's watching from the bed, his head resting on his knees. He looks small, like a kid when he does that. Chris has no idea how old Katsumi even is. Old enough to live alone, so at least 17? Not that it matters anymore.
“The colour?” Chris repeats looking down at the sketch. He got the eyes right this time, but it's still not done. Still not right. “Maybe,” he allows.
“Chris,” Greta says and he turns in her direction. Her hand is creeping up Katsumi's leg, leaving red marks, not deep enough to draw blood, but hard enough to make Katsumi hiss. “Come back to bed.” She mouths Katsumi's neck, sliding her tongue over his shoulder, he arches into it, spreading his legs unconsciously. Chris licks his lip and puts the pen on the desk, gets up and just stands between Katsumi's legs helplessly. Looking down, watching. He wants to-
“Kiss me, god, please;” Katsumi whispers. His eyes look feverish. His hands are kneading the sheets restlessly. Fingers opening and closing around the cloth like he can't help himself. There is no way he's going to refuse. He sinks to his knees between Katsumi's legs, watches as Greta smiles, her hand curling around Katsumi's dick. Chris swallows Katsumi's moan. His lips are dry and feel used and tender and it kind of hurts, but not in a bad way. It's just on the brink of too fucking much, but it always seems to be.
“Give me your hand,” Greta says, Katsumi shivers, but as Chris is still biting at his lips, kissing him, shutting him up, there is no way he's going to object. Chris pushes his fingers into Greta's mouth. He loves the way she sucks and nibbles, the way saliva runs down his knuckles, how her lips look so obscenely shiny. “You know what to do,” she says wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You're gonna make him scream again,” Chris says, slipping one finger inside. There is no resistance at all. He didn't think there would be, she's done it often enough. Slipping finger after finger inside, sometimes her tongue alongside it too. Spreading him open and making him whimper and moan.
“No,” she answers smiling, “you will.”
He wonders what difference it makes.
There are at least thirty unfinished pictures of Alan crumpled near the trash can. If he could combine them, he would've had a perfect effigy of his dead brother.
“Maybe you're using the wrong medium;” Katsumi says. He's leaning against the bed-frame. Greta is sleeping with her back to them. It's still the middle of the day, but lately Chris just can't sleep and sometimes Katsumi is awake during day hours to keep him company. Chris knows that Katsumi is staring at his fingers. They are of course thicker, wider than Greta's. He wonders, sometimes he wonders.
“You an artist?” he asks, turning away from the blank page to look at Katsumi.
Katsumi shrugs. “Some days I like to spray stuff on walls.”
Chris smiles, it feels strange. He didn't use his lips to talk or smile much lately. “So that is your medium then?”
“Yes, the way a can feels in my hand, the smell, the fine spray, the air, the wind in my hair, the slight danger of being caught. The knowledge that people will see it on their way to work, to their friends, family, lovers.” He pauses and Chris waits him out. “The knowledge that I can't keep it safe.”
There is some kind of wisdom in his words, but Chris doesn't want to hear it. Chooses to ignore it. The wrong medium, he thinks. Pencil and graphite are his default mediums. Everything is sketched out first with pencil on semi cheap paper.
He didn't sketch Greta out. He knew how she should look like. Down to the curve of her lip, the spiky eyelashes, the dark red of her long hair. The paleness of her skin. The dark, murky water.
When he glances back to the desk the water-glass is still standing on it. Pale remains of colour clinging to the walls again. Why didn't he use it?
“It's not right yet,” Greta whispers into his ear. It makes him shiver.
“He looks like he should. He looks like he was,” Chris answers, but he can feel it too. That something. That something that is missing.
“It's the water,” Katsumi throws in, his hair is curling around his chin, Chris grabs a strand and pulls him in. A bit too sharply maybe if the pained noise Katsumi makes is an indicator.
“The water,” he murmurs, playing with the strand of hair. “It's like yours,” he says to Greta.
“Yes, but this is not the way-”
“Of course,” he interrupts, because of course this is not how Alan can be born. He lets go of Katsumi and hears him exhale slowly. Must have been uncomfortable. “I'm going to kiss it better later,” he promises absentmindedly.
The brush feels smooth and cool in his hand, he dips it into the water and then into the crimson red. It should go nicely with the dark grey he already put on the paper. The drawing is still wet and the red mixes in pools and rivulets with the rest of the pale grey water surrounding Alan's form. It comes together, Chris thinks, but it's not done yet.
“Let it dry,” Greta says. “You didn't finish me in one day either.”
“He's not you,” Chris bites out. Because he isn't her. No trait of hers is his, no trait of his is hers. She laughs and it sounds amused.
“Your delusions are cute, Chris.”
He jumps up and grabs her by her shoulders hard, slams her against the wall and she's still laughing. Her lips pale red, her eyes sparkling. “I made you!”
“I'm making you,” she answers calmly and surges forward to kiss him. He bites her lip and feels her flesh give under his teeth. Her blood tastes and looks like dirty water. She pulls away and licks her lip. He kisses her, his hands roaming over her naked, firm body, cupping her small breast with one hand, pulling her hair with the other. “I'm making you,” she repeats quietly.
“I wonder,” Chris says quietly, “if I'm selling my soul to the devil.”
“The devil doesn't exist,” Katsumi answers. He's sitting with his back against the desk, one leg between Chris'. His neck bared, his eyes closed, his lips damp and Chris wants him so much when he looks so beautifully submissive.
“She does,” Chris answers, carding his fingers through Katsumi's hair.
Katsumi sighs. “You made her.”
“Maybe,” Chris isn't so sure. He looks at the heavy paper. Alan's picture is staring back, but there is nothing human in it. No recognition. It's just a picture, but then Chris hasn’t finished it yet.
“What was she born from?” Katsumi wants to know. Sometimes Chris can't believe Katsumi is even real.
“Desperation and desire,” Chris answers.
“What about him?”
Chris' fingers tighten in Katsumi's hair and Katsumi gasps. “I can't think about it now,” he answers, pulling a bit, not too hard. Katsumi unfolds and gets up. Sits down in Chris' lap.
“It's okay,” he says and what he means, Chris knows, is I can make you forget him for a while.
The thing is that Chris can never forget, because she has the same lips, the curve of her shoulder, her collarbone look the same as Alan's and she knows it. He can feel her gaze on them. Can feel her excitement when he bites down on Katsumi's shoulder, hard enough to draw blood.
“Oh fuck,” Katsumi hisses, stilling for a moment, Chris watches as the blood runs down his shoulder and droplets mix with the dark red water on the paper.
“Don't stop,” he says and Katsumi kisses him hard in retaliation, drawing blood in return. It's okay, Chris thinks. This is how it has to be.
She's sucking on the bite-mark Chris left on Katsumi's shoulder, so it can't scab over probably. It must be a constant source of dull pain. He pushes the brush into her mouth, mixing the blood with her saliva, spreading it over the dark water on the paper.
“Love,” Katsumi whispers.
“Yeah,” because what else could Alan be born from? Chris looks up from the paper when the tone registers. 'Love' sounds like a dirty word from Katsumi's lips. It's the first time he heard Katsumi say it and he didn't think that this would be the word that would make Katsumi break down. They made him beg and plead, scream and moan. Listened to him whisper the filthiest things, demanding more and faster and this is the wrong word?
“Isn't he cute? He thinks it's the wrong kind,” Greta says.
“There isn't a wrong kind,” Chris replies and he believes it. He believes it now.
Katsumi pushes Greta away and claps his hand over the bite. Takes deep calming breaths. “There is.”
“Are you jealous?” Chris asks spinning the brush between his fingers.
“This is insane,” he says.
“Yes,” because it is and Chris knows that, has enough awareness left that he can recognize it – a bit he amends, it will probably fade soon enough. “But you didn't answer the question.”
Greta runs a fingers down Katsumi's arm, lets it dance up and down in a rhythm that gets faster and faster, like a crescendo, like an orgasm approaching. Katsumi closes his eyes and bites his lip to keep a moan in. He is so freaking beautiful when he can't control himself, Chris thinks.
“Chris,” he gets out in that tone that makes Chris want to abandon everything and anything and spend the rest of his day buried between his legs with Katzumi's fingers tangled in his hair. That's obsession right there. But then Chris always knew obsession.
“I want to watch you touch yourself,” he says and sees Greta smile.
She kisses Katsumi's cheek when his fingers curl around his dick. “Good boy,” she says tenderly.
Sometimes he wonders what's wrong with them, but not in moments like this one. And there are more moments like this one than not.
The thing is that it's not only love, couldn't be. Not anymore.
He puts the brush aside and watches the paper move, the dark brownish-red water ripple and spill over the border of the sheet, the desk and over the edge to pool on the floor. A finger first, then a wrist, a hand, an arm, and on the other side the same. The tip of Alan's nose, lips, wet eyelashes, toes, legs until he steps out of the paper-cage.
He takes Chris' breath away. He's perfect, like the person Chris used to see every day of his life until Alan moved away to study and died in a car-crash. His body so broken that there was no way they could have had an open casket. Chris is so glad this wasn't the last image he had of his brother. The sheer life he radiates is nearly blinding.
He hears Katsumi inhale sharply, but doesn't turn.
“He's perfect,” Greta says.
“Of course,” Chris answers not looking away from his brother. Of course, he couldn't have been anything else than perfect.
“Chris,” Alan says and it makes Chris shiver, makes him want to touch. Alan's skin is wet, pale pink rivulets running down his body, over curves and hiding in hollows, pooling at his feet.
He's naked and Chris is naked and it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all.
“Yeah,” he answers, reaching out tentatively. Alan takes a step forward and another until Chris' fingertips touch wet skin. He lets his hand slide up, over Alan's chest, his collarbone, his neck, the curve of his jaw, strokes his thumb over Alan's lips, feels him inhale, curls his fingers around his neck and pulls him closer, so their body's touch, breaths him in: muddy water and something metallic and underneath Alan. He's going to bleed red, he thinks with relief. “Yeah,” he repeats.
“Was he like this?” Katsumi asks.
“Were you like this when he was alive?” Katsumi rephrases his question and Chris knows what he's asking now.
“You are spoiling all our fun,” Greta chides. “If you keep doing that I will tie you up and gag you on top of it.”
Katsumi doesn't like to be tied up, Chris knows. He panicked that one time she did it. Chris is aware now that she knew that, that it excited her.
Katsumi doesn't look at her, takes a deep breath and uncurls from his position on the bed to sit cross-legged on the mattress.
“Chris,” he says and even if Chris has Alan now, he can't not react to that tone.
“I would like to see that;” Alan throws in.
“You would like it,” Greta says, stroking a finger down Alan's arm. He smiles at her. A secret smile. One that he used to share with Chris when they were kids, when he was still alive. But he is, Chris reminds himself. He is alive.
“Did you like it?” Alan asks looking at Chris.
Chris bites his lip. He didn't. He is only into it when his partners are too and Katsumi bends and yields to them beautifully and it is a rush to make him, but he being tied up was so obviously horrible for him. Chris untied him five minutes into the whole thing. And made him try to forget for two hours afterwards.
“No,” he says and sees relief wash over Katsumi's face.
“Would you tie him up and fuck him if I wanted to watch you?” Alan wants to know. He looks both serious and curious.
“Is there anything I wouldn't do?” he asks.
Alan pulls him in and kisses his face, his neck, his shoulder, hugging the living hell out of him, stroking his hair. “No, no it seems there isn't,” Alan answers.
“Would you ask me to?” Chris whispers and he is afraid of the answer. He never used to be before, because before Alan bled blood and not murky red-coloured water.
Alan doesn't answer, but kisses him until they're both breathless and hard. “Chris,” he whispers desperately. And there is nothing he wouldn't do, so he sinks to his knees and lets Alan fuck his mouth.
Insanity is what they're progressing to, spiralling without any control. And Alan is slipping out of his hands because they aren't the same anymore. They are different.
He watches Alan fuck Greta hard, watches her bite his shoulder, scratching her nails over his back, rocking into him, kissing him desperately. They're bruising each other, leaving marks, their blood mingling on the sheets in a purple so dark it looks nearly black.