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Hey kid.
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Mon Jun 08, 2015 6:12 am GMT 
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The warm breath from his lungs painted the inside of the older man's wrist, and the warnings faded into nothing. It left them in a still silence. Hidden in the gentle cage of his fingers, Ignaz' creation did not shift and the contact between them stayed unbroken. Warmth stole back into the cradled fingers like a thief.

Years, and this was their first touch. For all the pain, and torture, and hours spent close and alone it should have been one of violence and yet...

And yet.

This was no act Sascha could map out later in the night, with his pitiless hands and limitless fury. How could he chart this-- the gentleness of these fleeting touches. They had all become accustomed to violence. Why look for something that had never existed, before? Or, at least to his eyes. He had always been barred from this laboratory.

Ignaz and Raphael were still. Laced fingers, warm breaths. Wordless.

The scientist and his creature. The father and his son. And some other current that ran as deep as the mountains beneath this place, and just as unreachable and perhaps almost as ancient. Ignaz had etched his precense onto Raphael's very genetic code-- he had rewritten him, with such relentlessness and precision. And all to entice out some monster he loathed and all this ruin and sacrilege for a boy who now paced forgotten-- by both. The livid cuts and the dying bruises that coloured Raphael's skin were trespassed easily. After all-- did they both not know they meant nothing, in the end? Only the desperate bravado of a boy trying to become a man, his frustration and rebellion carved across Raphael's body. A body Ignaz had created, and that only now Raphael permitted him to touch.

But only as he lay half-alive. As he let him watch only when half-dreaming.

The older man's fingers ran through his hair, down his cheek. And as he did so, he left a trail of warmth in his wake. And Raphael's didn't disturb the touch, didn't draw his eyes away from the face that so echoed another's. Perhaps another who had simply been playing a substitute for these last years. Perhaps all this time Sascha had merely existed as an understudy, a pale shadow to some other unspoken desire.

A shift, the enchantment rippling beneath him to allow him to lean up... Slowly, not breaking that touch... Just enough to rest his forehead against his. Warm and cool, dark and light. The trembling verge of life and death. His warm breath just enough to steal across Ignaz' lips.

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Ahoy!
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Mon Jun 08, 2015 7:01 am GMT 
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Waiting had never suited him.

At first, he simply lay motionless in the darkness. Then he rose and paced. Double-checked the contents of their packs, though he'd been thorough, and knew they had everything they would need. He kept checking the time and finding that only a few minutes had passed. Time slowed to a crawl.

He lit a candle and seated himself on the edge of the bed, dropping his head into his hands. Surely, by now, his father had come to collect Raphael from his room. Surely the procedure was underway.

Give me an hour, Raphael had said. And Sascha, as was his custom, quietly acquiesced. Now he regretted that concession. Everything hinged on his patience.

Patience had never really suited him.

He checked the time again, then slipped on his coat and pack. Hefting Raphael's onto one shoulder, he slipped out into the corridors. His heart was beating faster now. Nothing was certain, and yet taking the first steps towards the thing they'd waited for all these years was enough to quicken his pulse.

Odd. The corridors were dark, illuminated only by a faint blue light refracted from within the ice itself. Sascha slipped through them, a dark shadow. He had barely left his quarters when the corridors ceased to read his presence. Everything came to a halt, leaving him stranded amidst faces of smooth ice that reflected his own dim image back at him like a hall of mirrors. Well, then.

Shifting Raphael's pack higher onto his shoulder, he raised his hands. He had never attempted this from within the fortress before, and yet as he drew apart his palms, the ice gave way as easily as though it were melting, yielding like soft butter. This should, perhaps, have reassured him. It had the opposite effect. He moved quietly, his footfalls deadened on the still air.

Then--one last wall. Through it, he could see flickers of light and movement. It had been almost two years since he'd last set foot in this place. Silently, the wall before him gave way. He slipped inside, and froze.

He might have described his first impression as confusion, though in truth it was no such thing. He saw it all clearly, too much so, and understood it on an immediate and instinctive level. They didn't so much as look at him.

Sascha had no memory of crossing the room, nor of lifting the empty cauldron, feeling the sheer solid weight of it or the scratch of its rough iron against his palms. Nor could he muster a clear recollection of raising it with one straining arm and smashing it into the back of his father's head, or of the heavy thud as the cauldron fell from his hand. Time seemed to resume only once he stood looking down at his father's body, face-down on the ice, motionless save for the slow trickle of blood coming from somewhere beneath his head. He couldn't tell if Ignaz was breathing or not. He didn't check.

The force of the impact had been enough to crack Ignaz's face against Raphael's. They had been so close. And yet, with no time to waste and too consumed to linger, he didn't bother to check Raphael for injuries, to inquire as to the state of his health. He merely took hold of his arm, a hard, strong grip, and hauled him none-too-gently to his feet.

"<It's time to go,>" he said.

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Hey kid.
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Mon Jun 08, 2015 7:40 am GMT 
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Sounds had quietened; a blackening sea falling around them. So close, so close till--

It happened so fast. Ignaz' hands suddenly gone, a glancing pain-- a cut across his eyebrow where the cauldron' lip had cut, and the sudden heaviness of a body against him before it slumped to the ground. In its wake it left a thick path of blood. Down his throat, across his chest. The sudden scent was enough to make him gasp, even as light glanced across his eyes, stabbing him behind his eyelids.

He could see the black outline of a body on the floor, and the growing pool of dark blood spilling out.

The enchantments flickered out, one by one, sapped away by the rate at which Ignaz Dautzenburg died.

A few still lingered-- Raphael's heartbeat lingered as he was pulled upright- staggered briefly-- his hands gripping Sascha's shoulder blades as his body threatened to break down. The extraction had taken its toll. And the burn of life was still seconds behind, still foreign to the body that was still learning it was alive.

He said nothing. Just raised his head, and Sascha would be met with the look of a pure carnivore-- blood-streaked-- that had had its prey snatched from it by some lesser creature. A murderous silent rage. Utterly cold, and ancient, and full of black hatred.

Raphael would look more beautiful in that moment than any other. A devastating storm of a man.

His hands fell from him; he wiped the blood from his eyes with a brush of his wrist and watched the walls begin to splinter.

"<Go ahead.>"

Show me how you can tear this place down. Show me the years I couldn't watch you destroy him.

Freedom stood so close. It was up to Sascha to carve their path.

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Ahoy!
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Mon Jun 08, 2015 8:31 am GMT 
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With a pounding heart, he stared into the eyes of the creature before him, its nails digging into his back even through the materials of his coat. A heartbeat passed, then two. He recognized it as Raphael, and an instant later its hands fell away. Later, he would wonder if this was the last thing his father had seen. His eyes did not return to the dark figure which lay still at their feet.

He remembered the last time his home had crumbled around him, the scent of blood heavy on the air. Only then he'd been a child, buffeted by forces outside his control. This time it was a prison, this poor excuse for a home, and he had sworn to tear it down.

Still holding both packs, he seized Raphael's wrist in a grip hard enough to bruise. The fleeting glimpse of that wild, predatory thing had captivated him, though he knew too well it could not be trusted.

From somewhere deep below them came an audible groan: the bone-chilling creak of ice beginning to rend itself apart. There was no time. He did not run, not yet. Instead, he strode forward at a brisk pace, dragging Raphael behind him. His free hand swept their path clear of the soft, blue ice which for so long had guided their way through Ignaz's world. They were moving at a downward angle, pace increasing until it verged on an unsteady run. Even so, Sascha could hear--no, feel--the mountain closing in on them. The ice around them grew whiter, more opaque. Sweat beaded on Sascha's forehead now, his breathing harsh in his throat. Nothing had prepared him for this, and yet he had no choice but to continue. Everything was in motion, it was done. The past was a door which had closed behind them.

They were too slow. He could sense it now, that they would not make it to the base before the whole structure collapsed and they were crushed beneath countless tons of ice. He dropped Raphael's wrist, freeing his other hand, and began working faster--no longer downward, simply cutting a straight line to the outside air. Small pieces of hard snow were falling now, striking his head and shoulders as the structural integrity gave way. The shaking beneath his feet increased from a persistent tremble to a series of jolts so hard he lost his footing. Massive cracks shot through the walls, ceiling, floor. The ice around them screamed, and the sound was so loud and near and encompassing that they would feel it, rather than hear it, the sound piercing its way into their teeth, the marrow of their bones. The tunnel was collapsing behind them, massive slabs of ice dropping from above even as the floor fell away below.

Sascha dragged himself to his feet, faltered, stood. He seized Raphael by the wrist and took off in a last, desperate sprint. The whiteness before them was blasted away, even as the collapse tugged at their heels, their clothing. And then a blast of frigid air, and they were out in the pale gleam of twilight, the not-quite-darkness of these austral skies during the long days of summer. Above them, gray velvet clouds, no stars; below them, empty air and far below, ghostly in the darkness, the pristine snow-fields they had watched for so long from behind sheets of pristine glass. For one perfect instant, they seemed to hang suspended as their world crumbled away beneath them. Then they, too, were seized by gravity, and began to fall.

Fleetingly, as the sky and snow began to spin around him, Sascha remembered the last time he and Raphael had fallen, together. Quidditch robes, a blur of red and green, the smell of leather and wood, the hard green turf of the field and Raphael splayed out under him: warm, alive, smelling of blood and fear. A lifetime ago, and for an instant he wondered if it wouldn't simply be better to let them fall.

It was a long way down.

The fall seemed endless, as though they were merely spinning in empty space, and yet gradually the white moutainside was rising to meet them. Sascha's hand remained firmly clamped around Raphael's wrist. He could no longer hear the tumult of the avalanche. The still whiteness of this new world flooded his senses. The end was close now, closer.

From the silence of the mountainside, the ice rose up to greet them. Sascha's free hand twisted in the air, his fingers shaking. And yet, when he wrenched his arm through the air, the mountain obeyed him. They were enveloped in swirling snow, and for a moment everything was lost in the blind whiteness of it. And then it faded, leaving the boys alone in the world's profoundest silence: sky above them, earth beneath their feet.

Sascha still held Raphael's wrist in an iron grasp. In spite of the frigid wind which now rose around them, he was shaking, his face pallid under a sheen of sweat. The night was perfect and silent and breathtaking in its beauty. A slow trickle of blood escaped from Sascha's nose, and he released Raphael, his fingers stiff, as though he had forgotten how to use them. Like a sleepwalker, he brushed his index finger against his nose. It came away sticky and bright with blood. He stared at it for a long moment, seeming to have lost track of time. In fact, he was thinking about that day on the Quidditch pitch. The packs were heavy, and so he shrugged them off. Then he looked over at Raphael, managed the ghost of a smile, and collapsed unconscious into the deep, soft snow.

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Hey kid.
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Mon Jun 08, 2015 9:30 am GMT 
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Panting. Snatched breaths. Knees against the snow, bare hands gripping the ice beneath them.

He watched Sascha fall behind the thin haze of his own condensing breath. Watched the blood drip into the snow as Sascha grew his own bloody halo. Crimson on white.

Slowly he managed to stagger to his feet and watched as the fortress crumbled. In the end, he alone witnessed the last stand, the last avalanche of all Ignaz Dautzenburg's work. A solitary chronicler, he saw the mountain tear itself apart and come crashing down upon its creator. Somewhere in that mass of rock and ice and snow, there must have been some patch of red; the only testament to the fact that the man who had corrupted both of them had ever lived. That, and the still, unconscious body that lay at his feet, bleeding.

The ice had caught them both; cuts littered their faces and Raphael's exposed body. It still burned hot from where he'd had his life crushed back into each of his raw fibres. It was too cold for his wounds to gush open, yet, but the ice still melted on his skin. As if, somehow, even as he died Ignaz Dautzenburg continued to protect him till the last.

As the last of the boulders splintered across the ground, and as the last shards of ice impaled themselves against that ocean of salt, he looked down at the boy who had done it. The boy that-- against all odds-- had destroyed his father's empire and become a man. The child who had struck down the man who created him and didn't bother to check for a pulse.

The bargaining chip that had become redundant by his own hand.

He dropped to a knee before him-- his body shook as he watched the laboratory fall, but now he was quite still. Quite in control. He recalled how Ignaz had looked as he lay dying. In memory merely a black silhouette against white, and a crown of scarlet. As in all things, Sascha resembled him so closely. Even his blood smelt similar. He might have been him, the ice stained his hair silver...

He rolled Sascha over, onto his back. There was still a touch of a smile on those frost-touched lips. After all, he'd completed his role, he had served his purpose-- till the end the blunt club Raphael had wielded.

Raphael leant closer, ran the backs of his fingers down that cheek. Sweat-slick and pale, and as cold as the ice the surrounded them. Touched his forehead against his. The scent of his father's blood clung to Sascha's skin.


The boy who had fallen with him from the sky.


"Sascha." His voice was quiet, he knew he wouldn't be able to hear him and still he spoke, and smeared the blood from his cheek with a brush of his thumb. Just said his name, hoarse and soft. And then he laughed; faint and barely enough to stir the air as his tears froze like studs of diamonds across Sascha's pale cheeks.

.....

Sascha would wake warm. Above him lay the rich, thick texture of winter furs, pressing down gently on his aching body, and beyond that the darkness of a cave. Beneath him lay the firm, steady heat of another. Raphael lay still, save for the rise and fall of his chest, slow and deep as he slept. Sascha was drawn against him, head resting over his chest. He'd be able to hear the strong, regular tempo of his heart. Dying flames across the walls emitted a warm glow, whilst the tundra he would be able to glimpse out of the mouth of the cavern was painted in silver and white-- pale winter grass, and the fractured remains of ancient and brittle trees. Inside the cave was warm, and dry; the rock unyielding and rough against his back.

Sascha's wound stung, but they did not bleed; patched roughly by crude, exhausted magic. Raphael's still lay open; evidently their caster had had neither the time nor energy to tend to his own.

The moon drifted low. How many hours, how many miles had passed?

The sheen of blue ice was gone. In its wake, life flowered golden and full of pain and freedom.

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Ahoy!
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Tue Jun 09, 2015 6:36 am GMT 
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He returned slowly to the world, disoriented. With his eyes closed, feeling the familiar warmth of furs draped over him, he assumed for a fleeting instant that he was in his own room. Then Raphael stirred beneath him, a gentle rise and fall of his chest. He opened his eyes. They were tired still, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion and the lingering effects of a long, deep sleep. This place was unknown to him, yet he recognized Raphael--his scent, the contours of his skin, damaged though it was. He wanted to run his finger along the raw edge of a cut on Raphael's chest, but found himself unable to raise his arm. For the time being, this did not concern him.

He remembered, now.

He forced his eyes open again. They wandered slowly over the ceiling of the cave, taking in what he could see without turning his head. He couldn't see the fire, but the scent of woodsmoke filtered back to him, and a faint orange light flickered across the stones in his view. He could not have guessed how far they'd traveled, nor how long he'd slept. Raphael was with him, though. For now that was enough.

Closing his eyes again, he saw himself staggering through collapsing tunnels, heard the shriek of rending ice. The sluggish crawl of dark blood through his father's gray hair. He remembered the first blast of air, so savagely cold it tore the air from his lungs, but retained only fleeting impressions of the fall which had followed. And afterwards, nothing.

Unable to move, he gritted his teeth and lay in silence, waiting for Raphael to wake. In the warmth of the dying firelight, he lost all sense of time and, shortly afterward, slipped back into uneasy and dreamless sleep.

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Hey kid.
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Tue Jun 09, 2015 7:05 am GMT 
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His name would filter down to him slowly; at first nothing more than an appreciation of some familiar sound, and then words, and the familiarity of the voice that spoke it. It came quiet and lulling in his ear, with the same comfort of waves washing to shore, gently smoothing away the irregularities and the pain. The gentle draw and release of the sea, echoed in the ache and soothe of his limbs, the pulse of his heart seemed to reach in and pull him closer, up to the light and away from that dreamless, dark place.

Sascha. Sascha.

Such a far cry from his father's voice; a voice he would never hear again but for memories, and nightmares.

Gone was the smooth warmth of Raphael's body under his cheek, replaced instead with fur. He had only to open his eyes.


Raphael stood above him; gazing down at where he lay. Raphael's wand hung loose in his fingers, his other rested deep in his pocket. He'd slung a jacket over his shoulders, and the rest of his chest was bare; the cuts that adorned him slowly being drawn closed by a pale, thin thread that wove itself across his body. The same glistened over Sascha with the same delicacy as silk.

"Sascha."

The sun was setting; and the shifting light broke over Raphael's silhouette and painted Sascha magenta and gold, even as Raphael's shadow draped across him with the dying sun.

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 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Tue Jun 09, 2015 7:27 am GMT 
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This time, when he stirred into wakefulness, his limbs responded. He moved slowly, stiffly, like a man returned from the dead. He pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the protests of his aching muscles, and looked up at Raphael.

He remembered the last time they'd been alone together at a time and place that felt safe, shut away in a quiet room the color of sunrise, surrounded by the faces and objects of Raphael's life. He remembered the innocent tangle of their limbs, their quiet breathing as they had healed together in slow silence.

He also remembered the look in Raphael's eyes in the heartbeat before the ice had begun to crack.

He squinted his eyes as the last rays of sunset spilled across his face. Raphael's face was invisible to him, masked in evening shadow. He was unsure which face Raphael would be wearing, though he supposed it didn't matter. The effort of staying upright exhausted him, and so he slumped back against the cool stone of the cave wall, looked into the darkness where he knew Raphael's eyes would be, and smiled.

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Hey kid.
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Tue Jun 09, 2015 7:54 am GMT 
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He took a couple of steps-- his feet on either side of Sascha's hips, and kneeled over him, one hand coming up to grasp the wall and prevent Sascha slipping any further. In the shadow cast over his face it would be almost impossible to decipher his face, over than the gleam of those silver eyes that managed to catch the odd shaft of light from the fires and the slow-burning horizon. There was an exhausted sort of grace to his movements-- as if each were executed on the verge of failing but remained precise. Their long hours of training had taught them that; almost as resolute as a wounded soldier automatically loading another round into the chamber. Dexterity, Ignaz had reminded them, was the cornerstone of perfection.

Dexterity guided his wand hand, again; moving up and across each of the wounds, adding another fine gossamer layer. Evidently these wounds were the type to fester. But Raphael was careful; he took his time, lingering in spite of pain-- continuing when any other might have called it cruel and allowed Sascha time to breath. But they both knew cruelty had little to do with it. Survival meant pain, they had realised that a long time ago. With the adaptability only children possess, they had made it their own.

It drew to a close. The last trembling thread was cut, and his wand fell from numb fingers to clatter to the floor, already forgotten.

His cheek was warm against Sascha's throat, he'd be able to feel the gentle caress of his lips there where his neck met his shoulder.

"<You were more than I could have imagined.>"

His hand moved up his side; slow, at first. And then drawing him close against him and their respective war wounds from where they'd chased death.

"<Christ, Sascha. You were like fire.>"

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 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Tue Jun 09, 2015 8:31 am GMT 
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As his wounds were knitted closed, he bore the pain stoically, his eyes fixed on the stones somewhere beyond Raphael's left shoulder. For the past two years, he had sought pain with the desperate greed of a penitent. As the sole outlet of his suffering, it had anchored him, made him feel alive. This time, though, the hurt of it was buried someplace deep and inaccessible. His mask remained intact.

Only when Raphael's mouth brushed the base of his throat did he stir, seeming to draw a little further from the stillness of sleep that still enshrouded him. The touch of his hands, the press of his damaged body recalled some exquisite fragment of an existence he'd already begun to forget. He stirred in response to the touch, and blinked again as though emerging from some distant dream or reverie. A long, quiet breath stole from between his teeth, and he angled his face to press his cheek against Raphael's hair.

His own hands felt numb still, clumsy, as though they didn't quite belong to him. Yet he nevertheless managed to raise them, just far enough to grip Raphael's hip, the hem of his jacket.

"<I did it for you.>" Hoarse, quiet, yet there was a calm weight to his words. And even as he spoke, he felt that fire burning in his chest, the smouldering coals roaring back to life. He was weak still, but no longer tired; instead, as the fire swept through him he found himself all at once feeling restless and powerful and hungry. His hands were unsteady, but the strength was there as he tilted Raphael's face towards his own. And when he kissed him, it was a fierce, hungry kiss. A kiss to scorch away his father's shadow and the smell of blood that still lingered on them both.

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Hey kid.
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Tue Jun 09, 2015 11:33 am GMT 
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"." The word was bitten out as Sascha kissed him, though he barely needed to. They both knew, after all-- that this ownership fell one way, that Sascha expected-- or rather, needed nothing more or less than that dedication to his own god. That if Raphael demanded he cut away the hands that now held him close, he'd do it. Willingly. And bask in the blood that spilled.

He enjoyed the control, there was no denying it. And now, unshackled from that dungeon and with Sascha in his arms, there was nothing he could not do, no line he couldn't cross . There was no longer anyone who cared whether Sascha lived or died, he had no more protectors.

Ignaz had told him, once-- It had been late at night, after an extraction that had exhausted them both. Two months had passed, perhaps, and Raphael couldn't bring himself to drag himself from the operating table. Instead he had watched the glistening jars and the shine of beakers and vials, and the way Ignaz had moved around him; full of control and measured passion. He felt the sensations around him heighten, and the pity leak out of him, and in some moment of resignation and curiosity asked-- What am I?
You evolved to murder men.
Ignaz had said.

And now Ignaz could tell him no more. Sascha had seen to that, with his jealousy, his petty hatred. He had murdered the one man who had given him some semblance of place in the world.

"Sé."

He drew Sascha down, and then with those distant eyes rested his hand over his throat-- gentle enough to feel like a caress, and cruel enough to pin him there, against the furs. He could feel his pulse against his thumb.

He leant over him, and as the firelight flickered across those dark grey eyes, he remembered. He'd been full of pain then too, they both had. At the time he'd been at the mercy of two boys that now he could incapacitate with a look-- God, two years ago and he had been pathetically weak. But brave, and true to his personal code of honour. He'd fought alongside Sascha for the first time. Only now he realised that was had felt perfect at the time had been rough and awkward- playing at battle as their spells had scraped past eachother and calling it partnership. It was almost embarrassing to recall... And afterwards they had fought briefly, over some petty misunderstanding, and Sascha had given him pain relief. And they'd lain together in silence, in a way they never did now. In a way that, for all the hours they spent together trapped there, they never had the time to afford.

"<Remember my room?>" His voice was soft, his thumb traced Sascha's carotid. In the waxing and waning firelight, Sascha would be able to see the glimpse of a smile. "<We went there once, after some fight. God-->" Laughter, dark and quiet. The furs shifted beneath them, a bead of blood welled from Sascha's lip and slipped down his jaw. "<I can barely remember anymore.>"

And yet despite his words his hand drifted up from his throat to his hair; drawing his fingers through it and running his hand down his side. Slow, and tender, and some gentle memory of a touch Sascha had given him long ago as they had lain healing. And how it had made everything hurt a little less.

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 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Wed Jun 10, 2015 8:05 am GMT 
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He allowed himself to be laid back on the furs without comment or protest. The enveloping softness of them was a curious counterpart to the ache in his muscles, the unresponsiveness of his limbs. It felt good, the pressure of Raphael's body. The press of those beautiful long fingers against his throat. He stirred in response to the touch, gripping Raphael a little tighter insomuch as his numb fingers would let him. He could taste blood in his mouth, and assumed it was his own. There was a raw throb where the kiss had split his lip, and his tongue skimmed the edge of it in a lazy manner that bordered on sensuality. A provocation, perhaps.

If he was bothered by the thin line of blood running down his jawline to his throat, his face didn't show it. Instead, he merely watched Raphael from beneath his eyelashes, the faint gray gleam of his slotted eyes the only sign they were still open. Focused on Raphael, he did not waver. His gaze still held that same ravenous intensity, though his voice was soft.

"<I remember.>"

For a moment, it seemed that would be all. An absent smile flickered across his face and was gone. Slowly, his hands fell, mapping out the lean muscles of Raphael's thighs. Then his eyes drifted closed and he allowed himself to slip into the memory. He had done this before; for two years, intricate recollections of the past were largely what had kept him sane. Or rather, had allowed him to convince himself he was still sane. That he was not like her; that his memories fit together in an unbroken tapestry, that everything was right, that no matter what his father had done to him, the past still... fit.

"<It was a mess. I couldn't believe it, at first. What a giant fucking slob you were.>" There, just for an instant, he spoke in the voice of the boy who had lived those moments. The Sascha he'd been then, before. It surprised him, a little. He'd assumed that boy was dead.

"<I remember there were photographs. You and your friends, mostly. Believe it or not, I was jealous then--jealous that, against all odds, you hadn't somehow managed to have a photograph with me. I got over it when you took your clothes off, but I hadn't stopped thinking about it. There were papers, too. Homework, clothes, the things you'd brought from Cuba, strewn all over the damn place. But most of all,>" he added, the quality of his voice more dreamlike with each recollection, "<I remember the light. How soft it was--orange and gold, like sunrise. Bright and soft and quiet. So peaceful. It was the first place I could remember feeling like home.>"

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Hey kid.
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Wed Jun 10, 2015 10:41 am GMT 
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He hadn't forgotten so much as neglected that time. It was almost too painful to look back to then and feel the keen sting of young love and infatuation, recall the scent of pollen on the air and the cluttered gaudy mess of communal breakfasts. For all the heightened senses Ignaz had given him or, more accurately forced out of him, life seemed far more vivid back when he was just a boy. Back when Sascha's insult rang very true.

"Oyé." he muttered with a grin as he jostled Sascha's shoulder with a flash of that smile they both used to know-- like the voice that Sascha used to speak with. It was a jolt-- some ghost had settled into Sascha's skin and was talking to him as if they had never left that room. The flames were the rays of dawn that pierced the silk that fell around them, and the aches in their bodies only the scrapes from an infantile game of politics. Somewhere out there beyond the boundaries of their aching arms was a world teeming with life and promise-- homework, and teachers, and friends, and the tantalising promise of some career after this. They still stood on the precipice of childhood and the world beyond. Their horizons were stills as wide as the sky.

Raphael had instinctively leant down to kiss him, and yet found he couldn't interrupt the dream Sascha was weaving. In the last year or so Sascha had become nearly silent; his words brief and punctual. And now his lips were creating the warmth of the sun on his back, and a golden haze over tattered posters that lined these rough cave walls, and the photographs bursting with animation and life.

And at the centre of it, the boy in his arms.

"<It was just a room.>" he replied quietly. "<Just a lonely kid's room.>"


Did you love me before? Did you love me when you had a choice?


He lowered his head, smudged the blood he'd spilled away with a careful thumb, and brushed his mouth against Sascha in the same way some lonely boy might late at night, half lost in shadow, in a gentle first kiss.

It never felt like home till you lay there with me.

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Ahoy!
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Wed Jun 10, 2015 11:30 am GMT 
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The kiss was soft, quiet as a secret. If he felt conflict or regret over smashing his father's head in, he had yet to show it in any outward fashion. If anything, he appeared to have entered a slow thaw as he remembered what it felt like to live. As the ice receded, a young man emerged. He'd forgotten the taste of free air.

He drew back just far enough to keep their foreheads resting together, his breath still warm against Raphael's lips. While his expression hadn't changed, the faint trace of a smile was audible in his voice.

"<It wasn't just a room.>"

Their first morning in the gilded cage Ignaz had spun for them, Sascha had sat at Raphael's bedside, consumed with helpless fear. And in one unexpected gesture, Raphael had mustered his strength to grab Sascha, pull him down, hold him close. He had murmured hard words of reassurance, flashed a bold smile. Now it was Sascha who forced his leaden arm upwards to grasp the back of Raphael's neck. It was not a particularly firm hold, much less a painful one. It did, however, keep him close, as Sascha had intended.

He shifted now, hiding his face, so that his words were low and soft against Raphael's ear. "<There's something you should know about me,>" he said, his voice raw with that lingering hoarseness. "<I don't give a shit for the rest of the world; my father carved out a quiet little corner for himself, so why shouldn't I? We'll do what we have to do. And when that's done, I'm going to start building. And I want you there with me when it happens.>"

He was almost breathless now, despite the measured quality of his words. His grip on Raphael tightened in that familiar paradox of passion that verged on agony. "<I don't want to survive. I want to fucking live.>"

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"Because studies have shown that dvorak's a genius" - Dass
"On a side note, dvorak, looks like the Pope is recognising your authority in Sainting people. Can only be one person representing God on earth at a time" -TFP


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Hey kid.
 Post subject: Re: A Quien Dios Ama, Le Llama [Dvorak!]
PostPosted: Wed Jun 10, 2015 12:08 pm GMT 
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As the extractions had continued through the years, he'd found that the fire in his chest had slowly, surely, been replaced instead by that black ocean that grew inside him. Eventually it soaked through his muscles and skin and felt him suspended in it. There was perfect clarity there, and it afforded room for calculation and cool precision in a way he never was able to before. In some sense, he was drained of passion with every time he was strapped to that table. And instead he was filled with a calm and dark resolution.

He'd torn Sascha in some bleak rehearsal and mistaken it for desire, sometimes-- As the world around him paled into something like a game of chess, some death, some means of survival and the odd pull of instinct.

In the end, cold, calculating Ignaz had dwarfed him with his passion. The strength of his human emotion as Raphael had watched and shaped it like a potter hews clay.

Perhaps Raphael hadn't realised just how much. Till that moment, when Sascha's breath fell hot against his ear and the warmth of freedom fell over his shoulders.

He was speaking of a future free from Ignaz' grasp-- not coloured in his shadow and bitter with it.

I want to live.

Raphael's fingers gripped the furs, those eyes flickering open. For the first time in a long time, Sascha would be able to feel the stir of his heart; quickened not by the ecstasy of control or the taste of Sascha's pain-- just the words. And the promise that came with them.

Just a little kindling, somewhere deep in that black ocean his father had drilled into Raphael's heart, Sascha had set a flame.

One of his arms slipped beneath his scarred shoulders and drew him up towards his chest, bring their bodies tight and close-- their wounds pressing against eachother, their sweat intermingling.

"Sascha--" He wouldn't be able to see, but hear the hoarseness of his voice, the grin on the air, the trembling verge of an ecstatic laugh. "<-- You're going to love this world. You're going to fall in love, I swear.>"

I'll be with you. We belong to eachother.

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