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It really didn’t take much to get into the great Frederick Kreiburg’s pants.
Orpheus initially prepared himself to try much harder—he had the necessary perseverance, and he knew how to wait. But had he known that all it took was a single letter sprayed with a cheap yet pleasant cologne, a few meetings in that boring book club and an ungodly amount of empty flattery—perhaps, that knowledge would’ve devalued his worth as a person in the young novelist’s eyes. To get him to the manor will be just easy, he knew.
The others required some more work— frustrating work, if to be precise. Actual manipulation. At least now, he had a rather accessible way to unwind after all his daily efforts.
When Orpheus left after the book club’s meeting to freshen up before his rendezvous with the composer, he made sure to lace his glass of wine with more Siren’s Song than anything he’d allow himself to give to his future subjects. It was the first time he decided to test it out of a controlled environment, and what better candidate to do it was than himself? If behind it was also a seed of indulgence, it harmed no one.
He drank it in one go before he had the time to doubt the dose any further. The tampered drink slid painfully down his throat—burning and bitter, as if scratching him with vicious claws. A means to an end. Perhaps it felt awful going down, but it’ll be all worth it—at least for a moment. After that, he couldn’t allow himself to linger much longer—he had to get to the agreed-upon hotel room before the hallucinations began, as what his delirious mind could conjure from the shadows of alleyways and passing strangers would not be quite pleasant.
The diva that he was, the Austrian couldn’t wait for Orpheus in the hotel’s decadent lounge; he simply had to wait in the room beforehand, to avoid “being spotted together”. Every time Orpheus walked through the main entrance into the warmth of the hotel’s lobby, the memory resurfaced and made him laugh. As if his reputation was built on anything but screwing with any admirer who fawned over him—he was so starved for that attention that perhaps he’d been too blind to notice the public’s perception of him. Pretty creatures like him were usually dimwits, though. It was practically a rule of nature.
Sometimes, when Orpheus felt particularly in need of stimulation beyond the physical kind, he’d indulge in a cigarette with the washed-up pianist. Tonight was not one of those occasions. The author stepped into the small and showy room, heavy with the scent of a smoky perfume, and in sat Frederick—draped over a chaise lounge, still excessively dressed to the younger man’s taste, with his trademark miserable expression and a cigarette hanging between his fingers. One could mistake him for an actual prostitute in a brothel, with his appetising smudged rouge—not that it was far from the truth. The plumes of smoke emanating from his cigarette mingled disgustingly with the already musky atmosphere of the room, casting over everything and sticking to Orpheus’ tailored white suit like the fog on the streets. Even to him, a self proclaimed hedonist, it was too much—Orpheus found himself today craving pleasure in its rawest form, without any embellishments.
With what appeared to a bystander as great effort, Frederick finally bothered to move his delicate ass and sit properly on the chaise lounge. His cloudy grey eyes flickered towards the upstart who stood by the shut door with a scrutinising expression that he cared not to conceal. “Orpheus,” he said, his voice soft, “you took longer than usual—I almost thought you'd forgotten about me.”
To the brunet, his tone sounded more accusatory than the playful one that Frederick must’ve been aiming for. It sounded irritatingly pathetic in his ears, his constant whining—but Orpheus quickly masked it with the same charming smile he always employed when Frederick got on his nerves. Which was a lot. Soothingly, as if approaching a snappy feral animal, he moved to stand closer to the burgundy sofa, not without noticing how unsteady his legs have already become—perhaps the dose was an overkill—and, smiling down at the man before him, he lied through his teeth, “Forget you? After your performance this evening? I assure you, Frederick, I couldn’t forget you even if I wanted to—which, I could never .”
The way the composer’s icy expression seemed to melt if only a little at such a small compliment did not escape Orpheus’ eyes, nor his disdain. He was too easy. With an attempt to hide his timid smile, as if he were a shy schoolgirl confronted with the boy she’s sure would be her husband one day, he looked up at the novelist through his gorgeous long lashes. He cleared his throat. Then came that humiliating need for reassurance. “Ah, you’ve attended the concert today too?”
“Of course. What do you take me for?” it wasn’t entirely a lie—Orpheus sat in one of the back rows for a good ten minutes before heading out, even if only to be able to really sell it, “Speaking of which, you were magnificent, dear. Was that black suit you wore new? The golden accents looked absolutely lovely on you.”
Frederick’s fair face heated further at the words of flattery—predictably. Orpheus had very little patience to engage in this game any further; not when the velvet curtains on the windows seemed to twist and distort in the corner of his eye, when a chilling heat roared in his stomach, when his own thoughts began to sound far away and muffled, as if calling him from above the water. Frederick’s words did not matter. His inflated and fragile ego bloated the room anyway and made his self-importance more prominent than any words ever could—so it didn’t matter when he spoke about his new composition—which was as mundane as everything else he has ever done in his sad life—when he prattled about some fan who approached him after the concert—or about the book they were reading in the context of the book club—or about he looked forward to being with him—it was all pointless and incessant.
As Frederick continued babbling about one thing or another, with too much fondness in his eyes for someone who was only speaking with his fuck buddy, Orpheus interrupted the ceaseless stream with a kiss on his plush lips—to swallow the noise and perhaps get things moving. He couldn’t quite care whether it was too hard, or too gentle, or anything. All he could care to focus on was the funny little gasp the older man let out at the sudden contact before he melted into him with a practised ease and parted lips. To not be too inside himself and his burning mind, Orpheus’ tongue pushed itself to the other’s welcoming mouth as if he could find nourishment at the mere taste of him. The taste was too blurry to pinpoint, but it was sweet—so were the composer’s slim fingers tangling in his damp hair with urgency—sweet as the sensation of his knees grounded suddenly in the carpet to maintain the kiss better—sweeter—sweeter than sweet—nearly tooth-rotting.
Finding himself nearly hyperventilating, the novelist pulled back with ragged breaths, hazily looking up with big doe eyes at the other, who remained seated regally on the chaise lounge. Frederick returned the gaze, sharp and mildly concerned—did he always have to worry so much? He succeeded in being a miserable killjoy before even opening his mouth. Truly, a talent—at least he was a prodigy in something .
“Are you… doing alright, Orpheus? You’re more eager than usual,” he observed, as if he didn’t proudly act like a damned whore every time he dropped his ‘blushing bride on her wedding night’ act. The concern in his voice only heightened the brunet’s annoyance. “Not to mention, your face seems quite hea—”
“—I’m fine , dear,” he dismissed, his tone clipped.
Orpheus flinched instinctively when Frederick’s hand reached out to touch his feverishly hot cheek—with a near-disgusting tenderness that made the author’s heart twist in his chest. He didn’t want anyone other than her to touch him lovingly. Yet, he endured. Soon, he’ll see her—that’s why he’s here—that’s why he pushed through Frederick’s bothersome company—why he took that drug—why he created it—why he’s living—she’s his life.
“Are you sure? We can postpone our… plans, if you’d prefer,” he offered with that hesitant tone of his, his thumb gently caressing Orpheus’ flushed face in a lulling manner that made the younger man wish to slap it away like a mosquito. “Perhaps you can stay, since I’ve paid for the room already—we don’t have to do anything. I’d be delighted just to chat with you.”
His expression was hopeful, and the offer was atrocious. So far from what he sought—he wanted a warmth that words could never emulate, he wanted it now , and he wanted— needed —it without any more questions. He couldn’t stand to look into Frederick’s face anymore, with his furrowed eyebrows and that stupid frown. So, he forced a self-assured smile.
“Quite certain,” he began breathlessly, subtly pulling away from the cool touch on his face, “As for my behaviour—I simply can’t wait anymore to be with you. Seeing you so beautiful on the stage worked up my appetite—surely, dear—you understand?”
The plastic compliment worked well in easing the composer’s worried expression and coaxing it into a soft, fond smile. With a reluctant sigh, he conceded, “If you say so.”
With that, Orpheus has won.
He allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet, greedily leaning his weight onto the man before him like a burden that he didn’t mind being—it would be more inconvenient if he fell due to his wobbly legs, like a newborn fawn. Lips crashed against lips with a pointed tenacity rarely born of anything but desperation—more like a war than a kiss—Orpheus would win —he’d win until Frederick would disappear completely—he’d make him surrender—morph into something new and better —under the novelist’s firm hands.
It was funny, and also so very good, how easily the composer would surrender every time. He’d kiss with the intent to lose with, oddly enough, no complaint. Soft and easy with an innocence that was surely cultivated considering his reputation, but Orpheus couldn’t care less—not when he was allowed so freely to bite at his pink lips as if they were ripe strawberries, to shove his tongue so far in as if with the intent to choke him. And Frederick happily yielded.
A part of Orpheus wasn’t quite there till he found himself lying on the bed with Frederick straddled on top of him, a knee on either side of his waist. They were both shed of clothes that the novelist didn’t remember removing, but he found in himself no will to complain. The figure looming over him, illuminated by the dim gaslight that appeared as radiant and blinding as the actual sun for the novelist’s current state, had begun to appear exceedingly alluring as it grew blurry and unrecognisable. He could vaguely notice how it descended upon his pale neck, trailing kisses like a volcano’s stream—along his jawline—his neck again—collarbones—sometimes they’d return to his lips, as if to tease.
It was hard to grasp onto its slim hips—so tantalisingly close, yet far, far away—as if the more he chased it, the farther it managed to get—Daphne running away from Apollo—but Orpheus was more determined than a god. It was gratifying to finally reach the vague figure—the skin felt exceedingly warm beneath his trembling fingers, like the first spring sun. There were hands upon him—gentle but insistent—touching everywhere and leaving that same pleasant warmth in their wake, as if to cocoon him. They ran so lovingly through his tossed hair, across his chest, down his navel, so close to where he longed to be touched, but then purposefully running up and down his thighs. Orpheus didn’t take her to be such a tease, but he’d endure—perhaps she wished to savour it more than he did—not that he didn’t —but she was always so much more patient—he had no such virtues.
Her beautiful face was blurry still, but he could feel her warm honey eyes watching over him like a kind goddess—observing how he panted beneath her touch—how fiercely he burnt for her, and her alone. Languidly, she moved against his aching body like a remedy. Orpheus tried very hard to tune in, to hear her sweet voice calling out to him, laughing good-naturedly perhaps at just how quickly she could unravel him, as if she were unaware of the lengths he’d gone to just to find her again. She could laugh, and he’d revel in the sound. She was finally his again.
“Orpheus…” a stranger called out to him, just when the shadows in the periphery of his vision nearly faded out.
The weight of the dimly lit room came crashing down on the novelist all at once.
Frederick Kreiburg still straddled him, pressing heavily against the prominent tent in his underwear, which prompted Orpheus to realise just how painfully hard the two of them were. The scent of smoke still lingered, now with sweat added, even though the older man has long finished his cigarette. His pale blond hair fell down his shoulders, sticking to his glistening flushed skin, and he looked down at Orpheus—why did he always look down on him? —with that same pitiful concern shining in his eyes. The author shot him a pointed glare.
Somewhat breathlessly, he explained with a hint of something in his voice that sounded almost like offence at the unvoiced complaint in Orpheus’ eyes, “You seemed… out of it again. Are you sure you’re doing fine?”
Orpheus had to grapple with every muscle in his body as it longed to push the man above him off the bed and strangle him right here and there—no, no, that was violent—he certainly didn’t think that. He was merely agitated at being snapped out from his moment with his beloved dear. Annoyed that Frederick didn’t think that he knew what was best for himself. Instead, he spoke words that sounded unconvincing even to himself, “Yes, I told you so already—I’m perfectly fine. Would you just continue and quit asking?”
His light eyebrows were still knit together in concern. Damn it all. The pianist seemed to be well aware of the simmering anger in Orpheus’ gut, and so his voice was more hesitant when he continued, and it felt like a humiliating failure on the novelist’s part, “And will you tell me if you do feel unwell?”
No.
“Of course—but right now, the only thing that doesn’t feel right is how I’m not inside you yet, dear,” he tried to recover cheekily.
“Goodness, for such a refined man, you’re vulgar ,” Frederick teased, the flush that momentarily left returning to his face. Orpheus always had a way with words, and they seemed to be the key in every situation—he was finally going to get what he craved and return to that drunken haze that embraced him so tenderly earlier, with Frederick as an unwitting accomplice who followed him around like a love-struck puppy as long as he got what he wanted, too. Like an animal . It was a symbiotic relationship, in a sense—even if the composer knew how to be a leech—a parasite —he laughed breathily out loud at the realisation that his conversations with that entomologist lady truly sunk so much into his mind that he began using such terms—he almost forgot that there was an actual intellectual value to his other subjects—when he opened his eyes again, the composer was looking down at him with that reverent gaze he hated, so he shut them again.
Yet, it wasn’t enough. Kreiburg’s presence was much too noticeable when he was atop of him.
With more strength than he thought remained in his weak body, he flipped their positions and pinned Frederick down onto the soft mattress beneath them, that yielded to their violent play like sand on a battleground—as if swallowing them whole.
A part of him hoped to see something beyond surprise and arousal in the older man’s eyes—he wasn’t sure what he looked for in those twin grey depths. Maybe intimidation—intimidation would be nice, yes—something that indicated that he was aware of his position, of Orpheus’ capability to be mean in order to keep him in place. If anything, when he looked further, he could only fish out a fondness—as if Orpheus was a mere kitten trying to bare non-existent claws rather than a raptor ready to dive down at its prey. Why did he look down on him?
Pliant and desperate as he’s been through the whole encounter, the composer allowed the man above him to spread his lithe legs with as little as a nudge of his knee between them, teasing just right at his leaking dick. He made enough space for Orpheus to urgently claim his rightful place, on the threshold of the door home.
The younger man’s unoccupied nimble hand skimmed over Frederick’s chest lightly, tracing lines that he couldn’t yet feel , but he could see so clearly. The flesh beneath his fingertips was flatter than he imagined, but with enough will, he could change how it felt—he could feel supple flesh, soft and enticing—yielding to his touch with all her glory—in the centre, there were perfect buds, like those of a rose—it was all so inviting that he found himself wishing to sink his teeth into her breasts, but he refrained—for her, he would—she did not deserve any pain—so he settled for caresses, gentle kisses, and at most ticklish nibbles. Her precious breath hitched. He could feel the movement of her chest beneath his lips—could hear the sharp intake of air, and how gently she exhaled, the air blowing into his hair like a summer breeze.
She was his everything—more vital than air for his lungs and more nourishing for his soul than anything in the entire world.
A melodious moan rang out when he sucked particularly hard on one of her nipples. Orpheus’ eyes snapped open at the sound. It wasn’t her. It was all too imperfect.
Frederick lay beneath him with half-lidded eyelids and a glow of desire on his eager face.
Right.
His elegant back arched off the bed in a nearly exaggerated gesture of bliss that he didn’t even deserve— it wasn’t aimed at him —but he took it regardless. It left a space in which Orpheus slotted his hand, on the small of the older man’s back—a feeble safety net as he found himself drawing closer yet again. The novelist’s head ached profusely, almost as violently as the needy ache between his legs—persistent and gnawing at his conscience. The shadows cast by the sparse furniture of the room danced on the walls—shifting—twisting—as if trying to breach into thin air and leave their two-dimensional existence—like tendrils trying to come and grasp him, snatch him away from the promise of comfort.
Orpheus pushed into Frederick with one abrupt, frenzied movement—without warning at all—as if that could save him from the monsters lurking around them. The composer let out something between a moan and a yell at the sudden intrusion, with his hands shooting out to grasp onto the younger man’s body—hopefully only to anchor himself rather than to continue stealing closure that didn’t belong to him. His trimmed pinkish nails sunk deeply into the fragile skin, but Orpheus didn’t notice—for a moment, there was bliss.
A sacred sense of peace washed over him as he stilled.
Frederick’s body—no, the body beneath him—was accommodating. It was warm, and snug, and safe . He finally let out a nearly animalistic breath at the relief as he relished in the sensation. It felt right . As if he had come home, before there was no place he could call that—before all that remained was an empty shell that dared to mimic what he had lost—so empty . Now, there was no emptiness in sight; not for him, not for her. It was good. It felt so—so—good.
When he had the courage to do so, Orpheus slowly began to slide out his cock from the welcoming shelter—the second time he snapped his hips and pushed inside was even better—warmer yet. The feel of skin against skin, pressed flush against him, only heightened the satisfaction that coursed through his veins. This was what he had been longing for—a closure so real that they could become one, never to be separated again—he’d never let himself lose her again, not after all this time…
The desperation that suddenly took hold of his thoughts translated well into his movements—pulled out, pushed in, pulled out, pushed in—in a growing rhythm as if racing time itself—he’d win there, again—he’d stop time for her! And, he knew that she would, for him. Orpheus was content to let go of her slim wrists finally—because he knew she’d stay—like she always wished to! Concerned about the faint red marks from his vice grip, he brought one of her hands to kiss it in apology—it was exhilarating to feel how the blood in her veins pumped beneath her flawless skin, her rapid pulse working to keep her this vibrant—this alive—just for him .
His kisses then trailed up her arms—firm and capable, but she would always hold him so gently in them.
Her tiny, shy, whimpers at the unabashed display of affection tugged at his heart—she had no reason to be ashamed. Not ever, for how sweet she was, but certainly not now—not with her lover, who cherished every sound that fell from her soft lips. It simply wouldn’t do.
The novelist’s pace slowed, his thrusts eased into a gentle, almost lulling rhythm as he leaned down—planted a lingering hungry kiss to her awaiting lips and savouring the taste of her, swallowing down her sounds like a starved man—he was starved, after all these years. “My dear,” he began, not resisting the urge to dive down to kiss her again—oh, how he missed her —this time by the corner of her lips, as he felt them twitch beneath his touch into that meek smile of hers that he so adored, “you needn’t worry about being loud. Please, I want to hear you.”
His beloved whined quietly at his words, and his dick twitched in interest as he felt how her warm walls tightened around him ever so slightly—for such a clever woman, she was so easy to read at times… So, he grinned softly and continued, not once straying from the delicate tempo they established, “You’re doing so well for me… I want you to let me know that I’m making you feel good, too—can you do that for me, dear?”
She let out a strangled noise in response which quickly faded into a low moan of pleasure, accompanied by her fervent nodding.
“Good,” the novelist cooed, satisfied with himself for coaxing such beautiful melodies out of the object of his affection—it was a reason for celebration, he decided as he leaned down to kiss her tenderly again—a victorious kiss. It was with absolute certainty that Orpheus conceded that he could get drunk on her kisses alone. She was better— stronger —than any drug he’d ever taken, and so sweet . Her tongue moved smoothly against his own, coating his mouth in what felt like pure honey—like ambrosia—a feast befitting of a god.
Orpheus dipped his head into the crook of her neck like a hummingbird to a flower, taking in her addictive scent. She smelled of fresh roses—blooming and thriving, and—no, no —she did not— she would never choose such a tacky scent. The man faltered and pulled away for a moment to recover from the inaccuracy and sought for reassurance before it all became so foreign and stifling and cold and—
He loosely took hold of a section of her long loose hair, feeling the soft texture like sand falling between his fingers. Suddenly the hair brushing against his bare hand regained more vibrancy, from a sickly platinum to vivid gold, rich silken strands—longer, shining in the sun, like when they’d sit in the garden together. His darling barely used to take it out of her neat ponytail, but when she did, it would frame her face so nicely—she looked like a masterpiece, with an ornate gold frame of loose curls and waves.
The pace of their reunion began picking up, and a part of Orpheus detested how frantic and desperate he felt in face of her total ease. But she never seemed to mind, and accepted whatever he wished to give; truly, she was too good for him. Her lips remained parted in a series of soft moans, made louder each time he thrusted into her sweet hole just right and hit the spot that only he could. Down her rosy plump cheeks rolled silent glistening tears, like morning dew—which he quickly leaned to lick away.
The best of it all, even better than how her delicate legs encircled his waist as if never willing to let him go—better than how her thin fingers intertwined with his own and squeezed so tight—better than how her hot walls clamped down on him, urging him to stay—no, better than it all was her beautiful face, contorted in ecstasy. Round eyes wide with awe and love, a warm hazel hue that anyone could drown in. Eyelashes long and wet with happy tears. Adorable flushed cheeks. She was divine.
Oh, how Orpheus adored his Eurydice.
“You—feel so—good, my dear,” he murmured against her tender flesh, his breath hot and desperate, “I missed you—missed you more than words can say…”
She arched beneath him, offering herself up to him like a lamb sacrificed to a god, but her nails dug into his back with a delicious sting that belonged to something so much more powerful. Her voice was ragged as she so sweetly begged, pleading for more—Orpheus couldn’t deny her anything, even if he wished to—irresistible in her magnificence.
The novelist thrust into her with fervour, every nerve in his body sizzling with fire and pure, unadulterated need . A need to consume. A need to be consumed in return, by his one and only love.
His movements grew sloppy and uncoordinated, but she pulled him back in with the same consistent need each and every time, crying out in pleasure at how deeply he filled her. They were complete, at last. Her body fit perfectly beneath his own, and her honeyed voice layered in harmony above the deep groans that tore forcefully from his throat.
A heat coiled inside his core, ready to unravel soon, growing closer and closer. “I knew I’d find you one day—really, I did—but—but… oh… I never allowed myself to hope—to really hope—” he sighed against the soft skin of her smooth breasts, kissing the surface in a prayer, ignoring the tears pricking at the corners of his shut eyes. “You’re more beautiful than I even remembered.”
They were both so close to release—so close to ascendence, and everything would be right again. Flames burned at the edges of his mind, threatening to consume him whole, and he couldn’t care. He’d burn with her, he’d die with her, he’d do anything. He did everything for her. Orpheus would go to hell and back, he’d move mountains and drain oceans to be with her. He did!
The wet walls around his cock squeezed him so hard, like a ring around a finger—perfectly sculpted just for him, as he was for her. They were made to be.
“You’re perfect! So perfect for me, dear… I need you…” he cried out, desperate in every sense of the word.
“I—love you! I love you so much…”
With a breathless whimper, she finally spoke, “I love you too.”
“Please, look at me,” she pleaded, and it felt… off . Like the song of a siren, calling out to him from the midst of the storm. Clear yet at the same time confusing. Her sweet voice echoed through Orpheus’ fractured mind—instead of putting it together, it only seemed to so cruelly break him further apart. It was a sweet torment, one that Orpheus had trouble making sense of.
The novelist knew that to look at her would set something irreversible in motion.
Whether it would be hell or heaven, he had no way of telling—despite his brazen willingness to take reckless gambles, he couldn’t will himself to open his eyes and untangle himself from her bosom. Orpheus had never been a religious man, but if God existed, it was screaming in his ear to not give into the temptation—to remain peacefully blind and truly have her all for himself. But, could he truly place a mere god above his Eurydice?
“Orpheus…” she murmured against the crown of his head, her strong arms still enveloping him tightly, and the man could swear he heard a tinge of disappointment in her sacred voice, “why won’t you look at me?”
He could imagine the shadow of offence tainting her beautiful features, but he couldn’t look at it. When he opened his mouth, he found himself at a loss for words—why couldn’t he look at her? Radiant and all-encompassing and so utterly his , but he would not dare to lay his eyes upon her?
“Have I done something, Orpheus? Is that why you’re ignoring me?”
No, no! ‘You did not do anything, you are faultless, you are perfect’ , he wished to assure her, but he didn’t. “Be silent,” he commanded instead, like a damned fool—he intended well. They were so close, nearing ecstasy with every synchronised grind of their hips—they had to reach it—she couldn’t break him yet—not yet—not now! Every word that fell from her trembling lips drove the knife further in and crumbled his ability to resist—but he had to—for both of them, he had to.
“Be silent?” she echoed in a quivering tone, suddenly so fragile and human , as if dissipating like his self-control.
“Yes—yes, be silent— please !”
“First, you won’t look at me, now you don’t wish to hear me? You’re a cruel man!”
“It’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like? Tell me, Orpheus!”
He couldn’t do it anymore.
Orpheus couldn’t bear to hear the hurt in her voice, her taunting accusations that scorched him so, her pain. And so, he kissed her again, deep and hungry, and to say that he was relieved when she quickly returned the gesture would be a crude understatement. Yet, he couldn’t shake the lingering looming shadow of a goodbye, the sense of finality that stabbed him at the ribs. Panic began to grip him more tightly than his sweet Eurydice did. Her tongue against his own was a salve—so pure and accepting—her heat was contagious—her embrace a cage that he’d never wish to escape—Orpheus was close .
With a shuddering, final thrust, he came deep inside of her angelic body. The warmth he shared, however, seemed to be given to something that felt increasingly undeserving of it.
Then, he dared to open his eyes and raise his head.
The terrible sight beneath him made him collapse in pure agony on the wretched, disappointing body he had just used.
The wetness of his own angry tears dampened the flat chest beneath his cheek, and a calloused hand creeped up to tangle in his hair like the tendrils of a nightmare in a cheap imitation of comfort. The flesh rose and fell frantically like a hungry wolf, and hot breath—sated and disgusting—brushed against his heated skin.
The younger man didn’t bother to look up at him, but he knew that Frederick Kreiburg’s eyes bore into him once again with that ridiculous mixture of pity—concern—affection. He didn’t want anything that this… this harlot had to offer other than his stupid body. Even that he didn’t want anymore.
It was downright cruel, how the composer dared to look.
Batesian mimicry.
That was something he talked about a week ago—or two weeks?—time has been less significant lately…—he talked about it with that entomologist he’d been in contact with.
When a species takes advantage of the hard-earned, intricately designed warning signals of another—and steals them—without having the true characteristics that truly make it undesirable to a shared predator. One works hard, the other is an ungrateful, unoriginal, mundane, leech .
Frederick was a thief for having such long, golden hair that could be pretty enough if Orpheus had spent long enough without seeing her hair. A bastard, for having such flawless skin. A fraud, for feigning the warmth of her gaze whenever he looked at him. A soulless mockery, an unfunny joke.
The novelist’s grip on the older man’s arm tightened. A part of him hoped it hurt—but it probably pained himself more than anyone with how his weak fingers ached from the effort of maintaining his hold.
His head spun around wildly and all the temporary euphoria of the Siren’s Song was gone in an instant—the moment his darling left. All that was left of its effects were a dull and resounding hurt deep in his bones, a throbbing in his head as if it was hit by a sledgehammer and his chest felt concerningly hollow. He let out an untamed sob that seemed to scratch his throat till it bled on its way out, the miserable sound muffled by the composer’s chest.
“Orpheus,” he began in that annoyingly quiet voice of his, “are you sure you’re alright?”
The inquiry grated on his nerves enough for him to find the strength to push himself up on his hands. With an embarrassingly red face, completely messy from a mixture of tears, spit and snot, he looked down at the blond with an expression that neither of them could decipher. “Yes,” he said tersely with a wobbly small voice.
Frederick seemed unconvinced by Orpheus’ praise worthy lies, and with a sceptical and unsatisfied voice he replied, “Perhaps you’ve had too much to drink.”
The author grunted half-heartedly through his tears in response before he fell right back into the other’s embrace—caught off guard and unnerved by how eagerly his arms wrapped again around his shaking body. His lips gently kissed Orpheus’ temple like a bullet. Despite the instinctive geyser-like frustration that flared inside him, there was a comfort in the audacious gesture.
“Stay for the night. You’re in no condition to leave,” Frederick supposedly offered, but it was more of a demand. For such a prissy whore, he could be quite authoritative when he wanted to—like a true Kreiburg. Of course, Orpheus could argue like some petulant child, and he’d win eventually. It was Frederick, after all. But he didn’t find himself with the sufficient energy to do so, nor the urgency.
When he’d return to the manor tomorrow morning, he’d be sure to write in his notes that perhaps Siren’s Song should remain strictly for birthing horrors rather than hallucinations of love—maybe it wasn’t entirely the pianist’s fault for what an ugly night it was. Just mostly. That, or that he should up the dosage if he wants to try again. The second option was more appealing.
The brunet pressed up closer to the man next to him, his head burying itself snugly against his warm neck despite the feverish heat that still coursed through him. They were both sticky, and they both reeked . Amidst everything else in the room that Orpheus was too scared to look at in his current shattered state, he didn’t particularly mind. Everything else was too cold anyway. The faint, sweet scent of roses that still lingered on Frederick's neck wasn't as bad now.
He also made a mental note that when the time would come and he’d gather all the subjects for the game, he should certainly not be shy with how much Mnemosyne he’d prescribe for Frederick. He didn’t want the man to remember anything from tonight.
Perhaps Orpheus would also like to forget it.