Does It Sting, Does It Thrill

Disclaimer: These people own themselves. I own the razor.

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Three days it had taken him. Three whole agonising days before he could bear to go back to the house. He had stood out in the front yard for what seemed like hours before he had gathered the courage to even take a step towards the door. He knew why he was so anxious about going inside; the house still smelt like him.

However long it had taken him to return to their home, it took him much longer to quell the tears that constantly fell from his tired eyes. He was fatigued, every slight movement he made draining energy from him that he really couldn‘t spare. Yet he couldn’t sleep, lying in the darkness of their room, surrounded by the essence of Orlando and crying for hours into the night.

The younger man’s things were still present; he guessed Orlando hadn’t had the chance to come by and get them yet. Maybe he was just afraid to face him. He understood; he too was afraid to face the other man, seeing those dark brown eyes would tear him apart within mere seconds and he knew he didn’t have the strength to restrain from throwing himself into Orlando’s arms and making a complete fool out of himself.

Somewhere in the dark the wall clock chimed three in the morning. Viggo lay stretched out on the couch, clad in jeans, an afghan pulled over his bare chest to ward off the slight chill in the room. Vacant eyes bore through the darkness, focussing on nothing at all. He was quiet, full of repressed emotions, and lay with no movement at all, but for the rise and fall of his chest with breathing.

Loneliness filled his heart with sorrow and it broke a little more with every second that passed. His tears had long subsided for the night and he had been left with a salty sting in his eyes, which no amount of rubbing could erase. The silence around him was harsh, almost demanding some form of disturbance. Viggo would not give it. Why should he wish to erase the silence when tonight it was acting as his only friend?

He still didn’t know why Orlando had left him. The younger man had given him no reason for the sudden break-up but, ‘I’m not what you need, Viggo.’ Not what he needed. That one line had haunted Viggo ever since, screaming through his mind like a whirlwind whenever the darkness got too near. Not what he needed. If this is what Orlando thought, then he obviously had no idea what Viggo needed at all.

A chill ran over him and Viggo pulled the afghan tighter over him, finding it almost impossible to ward off the cold. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the deeper form of darkness he found there. No moonlight or stars shining in through the windows. Maybe it was not the night that was cold, but his own heart.

The thought brought the slightest smile to his lips when it should have brought a frown. If his heart was icy it was by no fault of his own. Orlando had turned away from him and had brought upon him a feeling that he had never before felt so intensely. Complete and utter loneliness. He had never felt anything like it before. It bathed his very being in emptiness, made him feel hollow. A tear fell, unbidden, and coursed down his cheek and into his tangled hair. If only Orlando would come back and warm his heart once more.

Cold hands reached under the afghan and into his pocket, tingling fingers resting on body-warmed metal. He pulled it carefully from the fabric and held it up, turning it, watching the light catch on its clean surface and flicker invitingly. Perfect. He knew he’d need his razor tonight.

Casting the blanket off his chest, Viggo sat up against the couch’s armrest. He looked down to watch absent fingers tracing a faded scar just above his belly button. A name, whitening his flesh is jagged lines. ‘Orli’. He’d begged Orlando to do this for him months ago. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. That night had been beautiful. Orlando had promised Viggo forever and had tried to prove it by cutting his name into unmarred skin. For Viggo, it was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced. For Orlando, apparently, it was nothing more than a battle scar.

Hot steel patterned his flesh, flying through crimson and causing a pained hiss to escape dry lips. He loved every second of it. The memory of Orlando’s face entered his mind as heat dragged across his now warming skin. Lips parted, tongue teasing them in concentration as wide brown eyes looked on. Hands lifting and head bobbing before his tongue lapped at a new groove in his skin. Grin widened in satisfaction, chin smeared with blood, a droplet forcing it’s way across the bow of his lips. Viggo had kissed it away. Now…

Forcing himself to look down at the picture he was painting, he concentrated on the image. A trail of blood threatened to fall and pool in his belly button but his finger swiped it up. Bringing his finger to his lips, he tasted the metallic liquid, imagining for one second that it was Orlando’s flesh he was marking, Orlando’s flesh Viggo was making his own.

Pulling the afghan up, he used a corner of the fabric to wipe up the blood colouring his skin, lips twitching when he pressed too hard over a deep cut. He threw the blanket aside and drew his fingers softly over this new scar he was forming. A heart encircled Orlando’s name, it’s bottom point dipping into his belly button, it’s lines clean, not jagged like the name it held. Viggo was skilled and he had a stable hand. The markings on his stomach were beauty hugged by perfection, white purity surrounded by deep red passion, a forever-reminded of what they were and what they could never again be.