Warnings- I haven't written or felt happy and fluffy in a very long time, folks, so don't expect loads of sunshine in this fic. Hopefully it won't be on the same level as 'A Delicious Agony', but no promises. Homophobes and people who like their rose-colored glasses (excluding Mystica because she's just cool like that), please leave.
A thousand thanks to those who have reviewed Nine of Swords and A Delicious Agony. Those fics are my twisted little darlings and I'm glad you appreciated them. Special thanks to Rubicon, who finds gold where I see only lead.
This Bed We've Made, Saints of Villainy, Part 1 of 7
It was on the coffee table when Lucius came home, late as always and wondering if he had time to brush his teeth before Tom kissed him and found out that he had been up to something naughty. Curious, Lucius unrolled the scroll of parchment covered with precise, methodical handwriting that compressed and folded in on itself as if the writer were in pain.
"I'm empty, Lucius. I've given you everything I had and it simply wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to tie you to me, and it wasn't enough to stop you from running to the arms of one stupid whore after the other. They're all the same, your whores. They all have those delicately aristocratic features, the same icy eyes, and the same fair hair. They all look like you. Narcissistic much? Yes, you are so vain. The morning star who chose black sheets of the coarsest material so that the contrast between the milky, nearly too soft skin would be total and complete. You have mirrors by the dozens. I wish I could hate you, hate you for flaunting your latest gold-digging little bitch beneath my nose, for having sex with her in our bed, for making me hold your precious little bastard son. You were so gorgeous at his funeral. You looked almost human with jewel-like tears glistening in your eyes. The child had your eyes. I remember falling in love with them even as the light faded from them and left them empty. But I wasn't sorry I killed him. I had to know! I had to know if you felt anything for anyone. But to this day I'm not sure if you were mourning the death of your child or the loss of another mirror.
"If everything I had wasn't enough to purchase at least your fidelity, then it certainly wasn't enough to purchase your love. Don't pretend that every time you whispered 'I love you' you weren't whispering it to yourself. The only time I ever found any thing resembling love in you was at breakfast. You always knew just how I liked my coffee. You'd curl up like a feline on the small, ridiculously modern and expensive couch and watch me drink it with predatory eyes. It made the hair on the back of my neck rise, seeing those eyes over the rim of my cup. It made me want to kiss you with all the passion I could muster and hold you prisoner until you loved me. I tried. God, I tried so many times. You'd laugh and I'd feel the vibrations rumble in your chest. I'd ask you what was so fascinating about the simple act of me drinking coffee, and you'd merely smile. The memory of that smile warms me.
"But then I remember how you brought them home with you, an endless parade of blondes of both sexes that found you irresistible. I remember sitting on the same couch blind with impotent fury as I heard you scream in ecstasy in the next room. I remember being bound and needing you so badly and then being cruelly disappointed as you left the room and I remember hating you until you returned and wanting to break you the moment I was untied. I remember being alone, so utterly alone, as you wrapped your arms around me and whispered empty endearments into my ear. I remember the heartache when I woke up in the morning in an otherwise empty bed and bitterly wondered if you had spent the remainder of the night with someone else.
"I've given up. I'm stupid but I'm not that naïve anymore. You are incapable of love. I suppose that gives me comfort now. It's not that you loved someone else, it's that you couldn't love at all. What do you know of love- a fey child who had all your wishes granted in an instant? You can't appreciate anything and appreciation is the mildest form of love. So I'm leaving. I'm going someplace where I can cut the image of you from my heart. I tried to do it on my own, but I couldn't find my heart. I think I've lost it somewhere among the blood and tears and emptiness. The blood was so beautiful on its own, so vibrant and warm and I knew that I wasn't dead, because it was still flowing from my veins.
"You found me. I don't even want to know what a pitiful state I was in, but I know that you healed me and that there was pain in your eyes. Dying and practically insane as I was, I still felt the smallest glimmer of hope that you loved me, but I laughed at myself for even daring to hope. Hope is a stranger to me now. I'm glad. She hurts me more than you do.
"Maybe you are my soul. Maybe without you, I'll be unrecognizable as a human being, but I know that's not true. Even now I cannot recognize myself. Do you know what I have become for you, Lucius? I have become subhuman, without pride or shame or regret, letting myself be used and tossed aside by a boy who has all the conscience and morals of an animal. That ends today. All of my silly fantasies and dreams end today, beloved. Good bye. "
Lucius read the scroll several times before letting it drop from his numb fingers. He didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it. But his mind knew it to be true, even as his heart continued to deny the written proof. He stumbled to the bedroom, knocking over mirrors along the way, his own heart breaking like glass as the mirrors shattered singly or in groups. A strangled gasp escaped Lucius's throat as he stepped through the doorway.
Tom's closet was bare and their bed stood in the middle of the room, abandoned and ruined like an ancient city. There was relief- immediate relief that Tom hadn't killed himself. Then came the pain and the soul- wracking sobs that Lucius dimly feared would break him apart. But he didn't break. The sobs subsided and Lucius rose. He fluffed the pillows, smoothed the sheets, and turned back the quilt just like he always did. Then he lay quietly in the bed he had made for himself and the lover who would probably never return and slept.
I'm tempted to make this a series, but I have no idea where to go from here. Comments and suggestions greatly appreciated.
Love,
J. Silver