All at once, the tide of anger passes through him and over a cliff, crashing into the black. His hands release their tight hold around Sylvain's throat. He can see the impression of his fingers, bruised and swollen, skin inflamed as a result of the brutal strength he carries like a burden. What is worse than being called beautiful—a sweet word like dust in the air, quick to blow away—is that he is anyone's best. Impossible. Another paltry lie from a silver-tongued slut. The disbelief is on Dimitri's face, shadowed expression like a watchful animal as he lifts upright, trapping Sylvain by the bulk of his lower body now.
The ghosts are there in his head. Pale, illusory apparitions, white scars of memory. Telling him that this is vengeance, and that this is just, and that he should kill. He has every right to feed this hunger. Yet it comes up against a deeper resistance, an evocation of that if. What is so different? Why can't he do this?
How unfair.
The way Sylvain looks beneath him is the true beauty. Red hair like fire, bloody mouthed, those familiar eyes, the handsome curve of a jaw, full lips that taught him to kiss and slender hands that taught him the only pleasure he's ever felt. Is he so base and animal to be fooled by it a second time? Hatred at himself threatens to rise like bile; suddenly, he shoves himself stumbling to his feet, head turned away, unwilling to look too long for what he might do. He forces himself out of the room. The door slams, nearly cracks the wood, and then Sylvain will hear the latch bolt into place. He's locked inside.]
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All at once, the tide of anger passes through him and over a cliff, crashing into the black. His hands release their tight hold around Sylvain's throat. He can see the impression of his fingers, bruised and swollen, skin inflamed as a result of the brutal strength he carries like a burden. What is worse than being called beautiful—a sweet word like dust in the air, quick to blow away—is that he is anyone's best. Impossible. Another paltry lie from a silver-tongued slut. The disbelief is on Dimitri's face, shadowed expression like a watchful animal as he lifts upright, trapping Sylvain by the bulk of his lower body now.
The ghosts are there in his head. Pale, illusory apparitions, white scars of memory. Telling him that this is vengeance, and that this is just, and that he should kill. He has every right to feed this hunger. Yet it comes up against a deeper resistance, an evocation of that if. What is so different? Why can't he do this?
How unfair.
The way Sylvain looks beneath him is the true beauty. Red hair like fire, bloody mouthed, those familiar eyes, the handsome curve of a jaw, full lips that taught him to kiss and slender hands that taught him the only pleasure he's ever felt. Is he so base and animal to be fooled by it a second time? Hatred at himself threatens to rise like bile; suddenly, he shoves himself stumbling to his feet, head turned away, unwilling to look too long for what he might do. He forces himself out of the room. The door slams, nearly cracks the wood, and then Sylvain will hear the latch bolt into place. He's locked inside.]