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      It wouldn't be accurate to say he was home from war. He'd returned to Gaia, yes, but was he home? No. Aramis hadn't set foot in the cafe where he'd been living since he and Legion XIV first marched back through the borders, and he wasn't going to go back anytime soon. He had a promise to keep, and he was going to stick with it.
      He missed his children most of all. But the blood on his hands had become ever-present, something he couldn't wash off or wipe away no matter how many times he tried. He saw it always, left behind on beer bottles and door knobs, spattered on his clothes. He would look behind himself every few steps and see the crimson trail following him wherever he went; footprints stamped in liquid life that told of where he was, and in which direction he was going. The smell never left him, either. It was omniscient, circling around him and forcing its way into his nose and mouth. Breathe it in, you scum. It would never leave him alone.
      Go home. Home to what? To a place where the only people who loved him unconditionally couldn't even speak yet and had just learned to walk. He'd be watched with accusatory eyes and perhaps even ignored or cast aside. Rejected. Dismissed. Unappreciated. Everyone there knew he'd gone off to war, and they knew what kind of things happen there. Carice knew better than anyone else; she was old and had the wisdom of centuries along with all the experiences and feelings that go along with it. He, by comparison, was young, stupid, and green to the matters of warfare. Especially religious warfare, which, in his mind, was the most blatant of oxymorons.
      He found himself at a bar with friends, wanting nothing more than to drink himself into a stupor and forget about everything for a while. He wanted to be in the company of someone who didn't know what he'd done, or, more preferably, didn't care. Someone who was unaffected by his life's story and wanted nothing more from him than to slap on a smile and pretend everything was all right. He wanted an escape, a distraction, a way to mask the ugliness and snuff it out with kisses and moans.
      Joseph. The faerie who frequented the cafe where Aramis lived and worked. He came by every so often, but they hardly interacted with each other at all. Maybe a wave, maybe a serving of tea, but no real conversation, not even a meaningless, "So how's the weather where you're from?" Nothing at all. Joseph was a beautiful distraction, and Aramis wanted nothing more right then and there but to get lost in him.
      He plays the part of the heartbroken drunk, slamming back shots of alcohol and slurring his words. He stumbles and shifts, rubs at his eyes and mumbles incoherently. He knows Joseph is a healer, and he wouldn't leave Aramis to befall some unfortunate fate. So he does what any decent soul would do: walk him to a room upstairs. Sleep it off, soldier; you'll feel better in the morning. But Aramis has other ideas.
      As soon as the door closes behind them, Aramis drops the drunk act and locks the door. He presses the faerie up against it, breathing hard down his neck, hands tightening around those perfect wrists. There's no blaming the alcohol here. He's only starting to feel the tingle, the numbness setting in. But his mind is clear, oh yes. And he makes it clear to Joseph just what he's after tonight.
      The foreplay lasts for a good, long while. Joseph is a master at his craft and Aramis, experienced but not quite as much as Joseph, is rendered speechless by his expertise. Oh, but Joseph's body is picture-perfect, Romanesque and painted in exquisite lines and curves of ink, road maps giving guidance to Aramis' fingers and tongue, and he wants to explore every fork in the road. The faerie's nipples are also pierced, and Aramis wants a taste of them. Badly.
      Night passes. He knows he's going to catch fire for what he's done as soon as it reaches Schmerz's ears. But he doesn't care. He's tired of playing that game. It was always possession and ownership, and no matter what cards he was dealt, he always lost. Well, no more. Aramis was a man, a free man, and he could do whatever the hell he wanted. There was no collar around his neck, no muzzle over his mouth. To hell with that.
To hell with that.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Sat Mar 10, 2007 @ 05:32pm · 5 Comments |
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