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Orpheus had already written his life.
Start from poor beginnings, an easy way to gain sympathy. Play ignorant, when he knew too much. Continue on the path gifted to him. Smile at those who craved his gaze but never give them enough to become attached. Keep them close with empty words crafted to be a metaphor for those unfortunate fools to relate to. Write until his hands bled. Repeat until he finally succumb to an unnamed illness.
If he was lucky, maybe he would take a nice trip abroad. But for now, that was kept in his drafts. The hassle of going through such things to gain a miniscule amount of happiness was something he turned his nose up at. He saw no reason to put himself through such things. Keeping to himself, writing in the blissful silence…that was enough to fulfill him until he dropped dead. He liked the sound of silence.
So, Orpheus had already written his life, or so he claimed.
A single invitation had spun his life out of balance. Thrown into a scenario where he was forced to break the silence. No longer could he sit alone, pretending the world around him didn’t exist as he wrote stories of death and violence. Empty words he spewed became twisted with meaning as he continued to speak again and again.
It was much easier to write, yet it was being ripped away from him.
Fate took the pen. A morning of restless sleep, leading him to be seated alone at the table. Eyes heavy as he nursed a cup of coffee, craving a moment of silence. Anything to put his mind at ease from this hell he had let himself into.
Yet, fate was against him as it allowed a devil to enter his life, sitting at the table opposite. Once again, he prepared himself to force to smile at the unfortunate, feeling sick at the thought of making empty conversation with this stranger. This time, it took the form of a man. Late 20’s, from what Orpheus could deduce. Black hair and a scar striking across the left side of his face. Brute: the first word that came to mind.
‘Good morning.’ Was all that came out of Orpheus’ mouth. An easy conversation starter. It has worked before, there was no going wrong with it. A simple greeting, fake interest, and then he would take his leave.
The other raised his glance, eyeing the brunette up and down before looking away.
Silence.
Silence greeted Orpheus in return.
He blinked once, then twice. Unusual: the second word that came to mind. At this point, he was used to an avalanche of questions. What was his inspiration? What did he hope to achieve? Who was important to him? Yet this stranger asked nothing of him. A few seconds of more silence passed, and Orpheus would be lying if he said he didn’t savor it.
But he had an image to keep.
“When did you arrive? I haven’t seen your face around.” He tried again, clasping his hands under the table as he forced himself to speak.
The other looked back at him, eyes devoid of any emotion that Orpheus could guess.
“Yesterday,” was the curt reply before they both settled back into silence.
Orpheus just smiled.
He was an interesting one. Norton was his name. Orpheus had discovered it through the pipeline, knowing he would have had to squeeze that information out of the other. Their accidental meetings began to happen more frequently, with them turning up for dinner earlier than the others. For Orpheus, it was due to his insomnia. For Norton, Orpheus was clueless. The man was capable of eating for a family of three, so it was likely due to hunger.
On the rare occasion, they would talk enough to satisfy Orpheus’. Norton Campbell was his full name. He was a retired prospector, so Orpheus guessed the scar was a result of an accident. Curiosity pricked at him, making him lean forward in his seat whenever Norton opened his mouth. Out of all the brainless nobles and thirsty journalists he had met, this man stood out like a sore thumb. A pathetic lowlife with a story behind him that Orpheus wanted to read. And so he began to pry it open, gentle touches on the pages. They were stuck together on the most important parts, but Orpheus enjoyed what he could read.
Tea and milk soon turned into wine and liquor. Orpheus couldn’t remember how he got here, but the man was now sat beside him, rosy cheeked and laughing. What did he say that was so funny? He couldn’t remember that either.
He couldn’t remember why his face was to close to the other’s. He didn’t know why Norton’s hand was on his leg, and he didn’t know why his own was gripping Norton’s shirt. He didn’t know why he couldn’t breathe right.
He didn’t know why he was unclothed, vision blurred by a mass of sweaty black hair.
Once again, it returned to silence. His bed was cold by the time sunlight hit his face.
He found himself sitting alone at the table again. He found himself forcing conversations again, a fake smile on his lips. For once, He found himself wanting to talk.
It made no sense. He was satisfied with the silence, so what had influenced him? A taste of passion? The desire to be touched? He thought those were pointless feelings, but had he buried them? Of course, he lived in the body of a human. Humans craved attention, so it was a weakness he was burdened to live with.
Days passed, and he hadn’t so much seen a glimpse of the other. He allowed himself to sacrifice a part of his dignity, beginning to ask others about his whereabouts. Asking during daylight yielded no results, so the man must be sulking in the shadows. Befitting of him. And sure enough, Orpheus found him in the tender hours of the night.
Making conversation would be awkward, Orpheus had known this, now even more so with how Norton was looking anywhere but him. He looked nervous. He looked unsure. He looked like a scolded child, yet Orpheus hadn’t spoken yet.
‘What happened? was a lingering question in the corners of Orpheus’ mind. He already knew the answer to that question. Asking that would make him look as pathetic as the paparazzi that craved his attention. But wasn’t that what he was doing right now?
“Why are you avoiding me?” was what escaped his lips.
Norton finally looked at him.
“‘Cause it was a mistake.”
A one time fling, of course. Orpheus had assumed no different. The two were clearly incompatible. Norton Campbell was a rough man. His touch had lingered on Orpheus’ skin for days, a constant reminder of the now named ‘mistake’. It was a mistake. Orpheus had never intended for it to happen. And Norton felt the same. What was the mistake? Sleeping with him? Speaking to him? Or coming to the manor?
“I’m aware,” Orpheus responded after several seconds, looking back at the black haired man. “I don’t think either of us intended for it to happen.”
All he got back in return was a grunt.
There was nothing left to say, and Orpheus knew it. He should walk away, return to his room and his life. He could handle being a mistake, as long as he could regard Norton as one too.
“I enjoyed it.”
The words escaped him before he could stop it. A pair of eyes met his own again.
“...do y’have any idea what you’re saying?”
Orpheus just smiled again.
It was such a cliche. Orpheus resented himself a little for it. He was inexperienced and clueless. He was a dainty thing, desperate for a rush of pleasure. He let rough hands guide him onto his back yet again…just as he had dreamed of. Those vile, cursed thoughts of being ruined again and again. His legs being spread with ease, a pair of fingers in his mouth. Moans leaving him like he was a whore. It was embarrassing.
A hand snaked it’s way into his hair, forcing Orpheus to turn onto his front. Of course, it only made sense that Norton didn’t want to see his face. Before, they were blinded by their drunkenness, not caring if their faces were pressed together in a fit of passion. So who was Norton imagining as he pushed their bodies together? The face of a lost lover? A stranger desperate for the touch of another? Or a cheap whore that would twist and bend to fit his deepest desires?
Who was Orpheus imagining?
The smell of smoke hit his nose by the time he came down from his high. Orpheus rolled onto his back to face the other, meet with those eyes again. He hadn’t left this time, much to Orpheus’ surprise. Most likely, Norton didn’t want to get caught leaving the novelist’s room in such a state. Hair messy, lips bruised.
Orpheus’ eyes drifted down to the cigarette in Norton’s hand, tongue darting over his lips. The raven stared at him in silence before moving his hand closer, a silent invitation. With a gentle scoff, the brunette shifted back onto his side.
“I don’t smoke.”
Their meetings got more frequent. Norton would appear at random, and Orpheus would allow him to push him to the bed and pick him apart piece by piece. Gentle, unsure touches turned into grabs and squeezes. Calloused hands on his hips moved to his shoulders, holding him in place as he whined and moaned, fingernails digging into his flesh. Silence turned into desperate nothings, Norton’s lips against his ear as he slammed into him over and over. They never let their gaze meet, Norton burying his face into Orpheus’ shoulder and Orpheus resorting to merely closing his eyes.
A minor setback is what Orpheus would call it. A time killer. A common occurrence that held no meaning to him. There was no denying that it felt incredible, that it was introducing Orpheus to a world of passion and pleasure. The fact that this pleasure had the face of Norton Campbell meant nothing to him. Surely, it meant nothing to Norton either, with the way his gaze dropped to the floor whenever he appeared at Orpheus’ doorstep.
It could be anyone.
Yet again, Orpheus found himself tangled up with Norton’s body. The man had returned from what could be determined as a lost match, fresh bruises already turning an ugly purple as he’d torn his way out of his shirt. The man had given Orpheus no time to react, not that Orpheus would have declined anyway. As usual, he let Norton take control, almost taking pity on the man from the way he groaned and panted, thrusting into the novelist with reckless abandon.
Orpheus was used to how rough he could be. He was used to pulling his shirt collar up, concealing the bites that littered his neck. He was used to Norton using him as he pleased, as long as he was able to receive the pleasure he craved.
Hands moved up, as per usual, gripping his shoulders to keep Orpheus in place as Norton got rougher. Orpheus almost felt amused. Was the loss so bad that Norton had to take it out on him? To feel in control?
Orpheus’ amusement was cut short. He gasped in shock, eyes wide as Norton’s hands moved up, gripping his throat. His mind raced in a mixture of fear and pleasure, shaking hands gripping the covers as he fought for air. Eyes squeezed shut, his head pounding. Just let Norton finish, and take his leave. Orpheus could handle this, or so he thought. The pleasure bordered on the line of pain as Norton surged forward, forcing his weight onto Orpheus and squeezing all the remaining air out of him. It hurt. It hurt. It…
“O-ow…”
The movements slowed considerably. The hand around Orpheus’ throat loosened, and Orpheus drank in the air greedily, eyes watering, body trembling. A hand brushed the sweaty clump of hair out of his eyes, and he lazily cast his gaze over his shoulder, meeting Norton’s for the first time.
What was that expression on Norton’s face? Anger? Annoyance? What was it?
Orpheus’ eyes widened slightly.
The night was cruel to him. The raven found sleep quick, curled up beside the brunette. All Orpheus could do was stare at the ceiling, repeating Norton’s words in his head over and over. Why did he ask that? Why did his movements become slow and unsure again as Orpheus recovered? Why were his hands placed so soothingly on Orpheus’ back? Why was Norton able to sleep so peacefully next to him?
The novelist was still awake by the time the other started to stir. He faked unconsciousness, not wanting to face the man right now. He hoped that Norton would dress and take his leave quickly. Return again in the next few days and return to his rough ways, as if nothing had changed. He wanted to feel nothing as Norton pinned him down, reminding himself that it could be anyone. That it was comparable to charity work. Orpheus wanted to feel nothing.
He didn’t want to respond to the burning feeling that thrived in his chest the moment he saw Norton’s expression. He didn’t want to think about how Norton had let sweet nothings slip through his lips while chasing his high. He didn’t want to think about the arm Norton had wrapped around his waist. He didn’t want to think about the way he caught the slight smile on Norton’s lips whenever they finished. He didn’t want to think about the way his chest ached when he was away from Norton. He didn’t want to think about the way his breath hitched when he heard the knock at his door.
He wanted Norton to tear him apart, and he wanted to do the same to Norton.
A gentle hand brushed against his cheek.
Orpheus’ life was being torn apart page by page.