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Salieri and Mozart

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Anton has no qualms about the bruises. One swift kick to the back of the knees, Court goes down, too startled to vocalise, and it’s a simple matter of an arm around the neck, harder and harder until the tall sleek body goes limp against him. Oh, he takes a savage satisfaction in every thump and drag. It’s about time.

“Apologise.”

Court tests the handcuffs, one pair to each side, thinks with some boredom that he’s been here before. What is it with people wanting to strip him naked and tie him down?

But this is Anton. And as always, there’s a sharp metallic shimmer of barely restrained violence in the glitter of changing eyes. This was why Court had walked away, kind of like the abused wife without the sex. Oh funny. Not.

“What?” Court asks, taking care to sound as bored as he can manage. The room is tiny, one bare bulb swinging harsh above them, casting wild shadows across the floor.

A quick swallow, working of the agile throat, and Anton does begin to prowl around the foot of the bed, fists clenching and unclenching. The ink swing of his hair against hard jaw seems somehow vulnerable even in his agitation. “Apologise. You have to apologise. It’s gone on long enough. You owe me this.”

God help him but these years apart have dimmed the memory of just how Anton’s mind works. Was a time he could negotiate those warped paths and leaps of logic. And maybe Court feels a little stab of nostalgia because there was also a time when it felt good to be the only person who could understand Anton, who could make him feel understood.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That was cruel.

Maybe it hit a nerve. Anton doesn’t show this. If anything, he stops, gains some sort of composure and stares with those unnerving ice blue eyes at Court.

“Liar.”

And it’s surreal but makes absolute sense to see Anton undo his belt, slide out the leather, curl that long brown strip around his hand. Why? Was it that charisma, manic cult leader to be worshipped and obeyed without question, the spiritual mentor who can do no wrong? Or the fact that he seems so calm, unhurried and sure.

Oblivious to nudity, oblivious to solitude, Anton leans down and loops the belt around Court’s neck. “You’re going to hell.”

Court chooses to say nothing. Ever the better man.

Except that there is one thing Anton remembers.

Haze of heroin bliss, limbs heavy like vodka, one of the many conversations in late afternoon tedium. Courtney Taylor bending his head to do a line, leaning back, his hand falling away, the long elegant line of his bare throat as yet unbound by those stupid leather strips. Anton too straight, too Catholic, too high to do anything but stare and Court too deep in his own heavy thoughts to notice. But somehow or the other, a conversation had begun and Court had drawled something about asphyxiation, about the sensation of leather against throat drawn tighter until every nerve thrills.

Anton remembers wanting to throw up, wanting to hit something, wanting to hit him. Fucking insensitive fucking druggie.

Now, years later, the heroin’s bled out through his skin and left him feeling tissue thin. The words don’t come, the mixes aren’t perfect, and that smug bastard heads the conspiracy to make Anton Newcombe the new Antichrist.

So he pulls the leather slowly tighter and needs only watch the eyes like shattered slate darken. Humiliation spreads high and dark on blade sharp cheekbones. But Court in his inhuman prettiness says nothing, clamps his sluttish mouth tight and refuses to look at him.

“Apologise.”

Sleek worn brown leather against the pale strong throat. A bruise is flowering across Court’s jaw, it makes Anton smile in a tiny moment of satisfaction.

“Apologise for being a pretentious wanker.”

Flicker of lash over stone blue, still he refuses to acknowledge or listen. Anton’s knee on the bed beside Court’s bare hip, he loops the end of the belt around his hand and pulls steadily tighter.

“Apologise for stealing my songs.”

There. One quick betraying swallow, contour of throat bumping against the leather edge. Anton grins, beautiful curl of his wounded mouth over teeth. “You still say you didn’t?”

“Screw you,” comes the mutter.

“Right,” Anton says softly, “cos I’m the paranoid one, cos I’m the one from the screwed up home, with the screwed up life, so I couldn’t possibly know when I’m being screwed by my best friend.”

Sharp tug cuts the leather right into flesh and Court chokes on a sound that’s a full agony of pleasure.

That’s when he notices that Anton’s lashes are thin and dark brown. They lower as he looks down, as Court swallows against the unrelenting pressure and the pulse of blood from abdomen to cock tip. So wrong, so wrong.

But he’s not going anywhere. And he has to know Anton would never go through with anything here. Too straight, too Catholic and too … Anton.

But then again, it’s been years. And this man in a fury of ice seems far scarier than all those spitting snarling fevers. Lightheaded, Court watches as those eyes lift, curiously aloof, to his face. “Apologise for bowing to record company pressure … twice.”

And that’s why he hates him, really. That was a full betrayal of everything they had shared, those dreams of revolution and artistry.

“Apologise or I won’t … help.”

Court’s brain swims a little. And numb in the centre of that inexhausting pressure, he hears himself say “I’m sorry.”

A raw rough fragment of sound but it’s enough. Anton leans in, mesmerised by the contours and tones of flesh. He’s lying and they both know it. But just this one time, he can get away with it. Because Anton remembers this smell, he’d forgotten that soap clean intense aroma, it’d stick to his own skin after a day together, come off in a whiff from shucked clothes and it’d hurt or heal.

Inhumanely beautiful man with his model face and benevolent ways. Anton remembers the sweetness, tenderness shown to every person close enough. Was a time he had been worshipped by this man too cool to lose his temper but not cool enough to control his body.

And Anton’s too straight and too Catholic but this seems right. He tastes the bruise, it’s clean skin radiating hurt heat, and he feels the shock go through them both. His thumb under that jaw, fingers cradling the side of his head, and it seems right to continue lower, steady sucking not-kisses. Some sort of righteous vampire claiming what’s his, claiming it back.

Court breathes rapid and shallow, tenses under every touch of cool curved lips to skin, every suck of heat against his flesh. Ink sharp hair swings against his chest, slides like terrible shredded satin against his skin, the leather end of the belt thuds gently against his heart and he really shouldn’t be this freaked.

“I lied,” he says suddenly. Anton pauses, his lips still on skin.

“I don’t regret anything I’ve done.”

And Anton bites him, on the nipple, hard, with vicious teeth.

Court snarls without thinking, before he can remember that control. “Fucker.”

Then it is bites and no one’s freaked any more. Anton uses his teeth precisely, softer and softer down the tense inward curve of abdomen, listens to the slight catch in the conceited drawl.

“I don’t regret leaving you.”

He uses his teeth a little harder, gnaws on a tiny fraction of skin. Court flinches in a rattle of handcuffs but keeps going.

“I don’t regret never speaking to you all those years.”

A glance upwards, flash of piercing pale blue eyes between the strands of black lank hair. Court’s trapped under his body, no contact but he can sense the warmth of old denim, the deep chest fire Anton carries always.

Clearly, he says “I never missed you.”

And Anton closes his eyes, lowers his head and lets the edges of his hair brush over the tip of Court’s cock. A rasp of a sigh in the glare and heat. Now there’s a strain in that cold voice. “I never picked up the phone to call you … at least once a week … then once a month.”

Anton breathes, watches the beautiful shape and colour of that cock, long hard and narrow. His hair falls around his face, curves in a macabre elegance against the curve of his jaw. Clean cool Court smell sharpened and deepened this low and intimate.

“I never felt anything when I sang your songs.”

Anton swallows him, deep wet furnace of sensation, the lightning scrape of teeth, close of lips at root. Court’s hips buck but Anton’s already pulled back, swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. Eyes of pale fire. “Fuck you.”

And it’s a promise, is it?

There’s a cock ring, hangs off the tip of Anton’s finger, glints like the beautiful smile across his mouth. Slides sleek and cold down the length of Court’s erection, he closes his eyes for a second against the sensation, feels it right down to the soles of his feet. But a fingertip rasps against his thin thin skin and he has to look.

Anton concentrates on this like he does with everything else, with all his being, all the intensity of him focused on the perfection of the moment. Court suddenly remembers this, how this man lived every moment with such integrity, the reeling wild abandon of him because every moment was important.

And Court doesn’t get to come unless he says so. Which, in a haze of ridiculously happy delirium, seems right and fitting.

“You’re mistaken, friend.”

The strange blend of American and English inflections, not enough of a drawl but precise enough to shiver some chord of recognition.

“You thought I cared, you think I still care.”

Anton braced on his arms, shoulders sharp, the denim shirt hanging loose and a few shades too dark too warm for those eyes that barely blink. “You and your smug little friends in your snug little home.”

No job, no home. Court remembers the moving from place to place, mooching off reluctant and well meaning friends, the increasing fragility of that highly strung temper worsened by the habit.

Anton leans close, beautiful thin mouth a whisper from Court’s beautiful lush mouth, pale blue eyes to slate blue eyes.

“You’re a whore and you know it.”

Court opens his mouth to snap and Anton kisses him.

Hard.

Hard enough to push his head back, hard enough to bruise the slut mouth, tongue and teeth and fingers digging under jaw. Court yanks at the handcuffs, pushes against him, struggles to give as hard as he gets.

And just as his erection scrapes raw against denim clad thigh, Anton pulls away. This time Court swears in an anguish of frustration but it’s a breeze of heat that sears them both because Anton scrabbles at his jeans, unbuttons and tugs out his bare blood hard cock. Unthinking, Court pulls so hard at the handcuffs that the metal bites pain into his wrists.

It barely registers for Anton is straddling him, a sudden riot of heat and proximity and pale blue fire eyes. Cock slides against cock, and the very straight very Catholic Anton slips one hand between them, holds their cocks together, slide against slide. Too hot, too slick, too utterly sinful good. Court begins to moan against the belt constriction and Anton puts his other hand over Court’s mouth, watches his eyes, slate dark eyes storming with sensation.

Colour across his face, he fucks his hips steadily against Court, burning at the rub of pubic hair, shocked over and over again by the feel and smell of warm sex rich male flesh, this particular man’s cock in his hand, against his own, the heat and smell sticking to their skin. He watches without blinking, unable to stop, unable to think, lost in a beautiful hallucination of perverse harmony.

He knows just when to pull off and pull back. And now there is no shred of control left with Courtney Taylor. Snarling sex murder, he lunges forward, brought up sharp by the handcuffs.

Anton uncuffs him.

Before he’s even got the second pair off, he’s being crowded by hard male flesh, the denim shirt deftly unbuttoned and stripped off. Maybe those finally freed hands are shaking a little but he’s kissed and he doesn’t need to think anymore. Hands in his hair and Court’s deep wide skilful mouth biting, sucking, far too urgent to be cool, to be anything but satisfying.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Court says. And Anton realises with a flare of humour that he is indeed a masochist. Cos nothing makes more sense.

Down the lovely curve of his back, his mouth in the pillow, so wrong so wrong but it’s Court and he owes him this. Court’s tongue follows the indent of his spine, shimmer silver spark of sensation behind his eyes, and he tenses, groans into the crook of his elbow when that tongue dips in a definite sin. Tongue, fingers and finally cock.

They fuck in a perfect chaos of sound and sensation, one whore and one godhead, doctor and reverend. Anton curves in a fire of harmony, ink swerve of hair across his cheek, pale blue eyes focusing in a power of tenderness that pulls Court deep within him, an arch of elegance, storm beautiful eyes in a heated face. And when they break, it’s with a sweetness that’s all blasphemy, all perfection.

Salieri and Mozart never had it this good.